Author Note:
The plotlines roughly corresponds to those in the original book but are adapted for the story context. The story is still told from Katniss's POV. As always, a hearty thank you for my Beta Readers and to TrunksBordare for his encouragement! As I am completely in love with this story, (any and all) comments are welcome! :D
God gave us our memories so that we might have roses in December.
- J. M. Barrie
Chapter 1: The Reaping Gone Wrong
The idea itself was so preposterous. Like Gale and I could actually run away and leave our old life behind for some unknown out there in the wilderness. Just forget about our responsibilities and leave. Right. I'm just about to voice these objections when Gale leans over and kisses me. It's so sudden, so unexpected that it takes my breath away. His eyes are full of an inexpressible longing and fear and I don't know what to say at first. Then, caught in the moment, I find myself saying, "Ok, let's do it."
His kiss has ignited something illicit inside me; a reckless, pure thrill of irresponsibility and pleasure. He cocks his head like I might be toying with him but I stand up and take his hand in mine. In a moment we are running, our bows slung across our shoulders and game bags thumping at our sides. We run as far as our legs and lungs will allow us. It's as if the weight of what we're doing dogs us with every step and the only answer is to get farther away from it. We run further and deeper into the woods than we've ever been before, and by the time we finally stop to catch our breath there is nothing that looks familiar to me anymore.
That's when the stab of fear hits me. We have no spare clothing, no shelter, only our hunting supplies and since we have never been so far from the District 12 borders, we have no sense of what might lay out here or what direction to continue traveling in. My mind flashes a memory from a few years ago when we encountered a red-headed girl and her boy trying to escape from somewhere distant as well. They were caught by hovercraft before our very eyes as Gale and I hid in the rocks nearby. Would that be us now? How far would we get before someone alerted the Capitol that we were missing? My gut tells me that it wouldn't be very far at all.
Gale seems to sense my unease and he helps me find a soft resting spot among the moss. There is silence between us as he begins to prep a small cooking fire and he roasts one of the rabbits we snared earlier. The smell of the cooking meat is intoxicating to my empty stomach and revolting at the same time because this is the meal I should be making for mother and Prim right now.
Prim.
"Oh, Gale, what are we doing?" The thought of my gentle little sister, so young and so dependent on me almost brings me to tears. Gale too has younger siblings and a mother who would be utterly lost without him to provide for their family. I spare a glance toward him and the uneaten portion of rabbit he had served for himself. We were thinking the same thing and yet, we were both loathed to admit it. Going back meant facing the possibility that one, or even both of us, could be selected during the Reaping today, a fate worse than even starving slowly home in the Seam because it meant competing in this year's Hunger Games. It had felt so good, so uninhibited for a few fleeting moments to feel and do something so wholly for ourselves. But it couldn't last; we had to go home.
As it turns out, the task isn't quite as simple as that. The summer day is bright and warm and there's little in the way of tracks for us to follow back. We had run so blindly ahead that now, as we trudge through them on our return trip, our surroundings look even less familiar, if that was even possible. Gale takes the lead and through his guidance we finally manage to find the well-known chain link fence once more. The electric was off – as usual – and we casually pushed the broken mesh aside to slip through.
It was only upon being back in the streets of the district that I realize how late in the day it has become. It was well through the afternoon and the skies have started to take on that depressingly dark slate grey quality that signals the beginning of nightfall here. Had we really let the whole day fly by? Perhaps the most critical day of our year and we have wasted it in our rash excursion through the woods?
Gale walks me to my door, trying to keep to our usual routine. We stand hesitantly in front of each other for a moment before he leans down and kisses me briefly on the cheek. He doesn't need to say anything. It occurs to me that though I was clueless to this intimacy between us before today that he – being two years older than me – may have already put more substantial thought into a future for us. I doubt there could be any real future out there in the woods, with only the two of us alone against the world. But there might be, however desolate that life was, here in the Seam. This single kiss held the promise of whatever may happen he'd be here beside me for it.
When I open the door, I fully expect berating from my mother for risking our family's safety at the Reaping by not being present. Or, at the very least, some worry about my safety or disbelief at the reason I had been gone so long. But there is only silence to greet me. Mother is sitting in a chair beside the empty fireplace, a wholly vacant expression consuming all of her features. My heart begins to beat faster as fear overtakes me. Prim is nowhere to be seen.
"Mother?" I ask as I approach the cold and empty stone cooking pit. I half-heartedly hold out the cooked rabbit but she doesn't take it. "What's going on? Where's Prim?"
But in my heart of hearts I know there's only one real reason she'd be absent on the evening of the Reaping. And whether the far-off quality comes from Mother's voice or the sinking sense of reality in my own head, I barely hear her when she says, "She was chosen." The world falls back further and for a moment I'm almost sure that this is a dream, or a nightmare, or I have been drugged because the Capitol agents really did catch us in the woods today. But somewhere around me is my mother's voice and she tells me again what I already know, what is slowly becoming undeniable.
"Katniss, Prim was chosen at the Reaping today."
The next thing I remember is pounding on Gale's door. When he answers I can see in his eyes that he already knows and I practically collapse into his arms. They must take me inside and attempt to comfort me but I'm drifting in and out of conscious recollection. Mostly I'm crying, or heaving with sobs because my tears have run their course, and Gale is holding me. My words must be mostly unintelligible but what I'm trying to express somehow is grief at the loss, fear for Prim's life, and most soul-crushingly of all, the guilt I feel at not being there to take her place. There is nothing Gale can say to ease my suffering so he just holds me close to him, stroking my hair and whispering reassurances in my ear.
I push away the bowl of stew they offer me even though it smells delicious and my stomach is an empty pit inside me. I can't seem to stop the unending drone of guilt and regret that's playing my mind. Ever since our father died in the coal mine explosion it has been my singular duty to protect Prim, whom I love above all in this world. But today, when she needed me the most, I wasn't there for her. I could have volunteered to take her place. I could be on the train right now, one of the 24 selected tributes, hurling through space toward the Capitol and my near certain death. Instead it is Prim, so quiet and defenseless, caught in the middle of this all. The thought of her fighting in the arena – it is insanity.
My anger flares at the Capitol for putting us in this situation to begin with. It is barbaric and cruel to die as children for the entertainment of pampered Capitol citizens; a spectacle which for us is a constant reminder of the omnipresent power of the government to control the destiny of our lives. But if I am honest I know that my anger is mostly at myself. It was my own fault that I have failed her. I didn't even get the chance to say goodbye. A new wave of hopelessness washes over me and I sincerely wish with all my being to have this day over. For anything that would allow me to exchanges places. A hundred times over I would sacrifice myself for her. Wouldn't I? I want to believe I would, but there is no way to know, now. The grief envelopes me.
When my mother arrives with sleep syrup from her stock of medicinal supplies I am too incoherent to realize what is happening. All I feel are the sharp prick of the needle and the powerful pull of sedative. As I slide under, my last thought is of the ironic motto the Capitol instills upon us, "May the odds be ever in your favor!" With a thousand to one chance that Prim was the randomly chosen girl from our district, the odds were most certainly not in our favor. But just as soon as it crosses my mind, the unhappy thought is lost in the sea of semi-conscious blackness and then nothing. Oblivion is a happy respite from the pain.
The next time I see Prim she's on TV, the first of many appearances in the long procession of pre-Game coverage. She seems so far away that again I'm struck by the unreality of the situation. Around the television I'm flanked by my mother and Gale, each holding one of my hands with the intensity of a vicegrip. This will be our daily vigil for the next couple weeks until the Games are over, until we know her fate for sure. Around us are the rest of Gale's family – his mother and younger siblings – and oddly, Buttercup, too. The mangy old tomcat that Prim was so fond of has belittled himself to make an appearance here with the rest of the family. Perhaps he feels the sadness in the room or he's intelligent enough to know that it's for her sake we are gathered. Either way, he is accepted into our vigil. Everything about the Games is mandatory viewing for all citizens of Panem, but tonight it is for Prim that we watch, not the Capitol.
The tributes are present in order, dressed by their stylists into decadent costumes that illuminate the major industry of each district. Twelve's is coal mining so our costumes are usually lackluster, but tonight's presentation is anything but. Prim and the male tribute appear in fitted dark jumpsuits that appear unimpressive until there is a spark and suddenly they are engulfed in bright red and orange tongues of flame. In our living room, we echo the gasp of the crowd on TV and for a moment no one dares to breathe… until we see their faces and arms reemerge. They are smiling and waving to the crowd and there is a unanimous exhale of relief, followed by joyous cries of delight. The announcer is almost beside himself with praise for the extravagant debut of Cinna and Portia, the stylists assigned to represent the tributes from District 12.
Something else strikes me about the presentation – the boy. I was so caught up in the loss of Prim that I never even found out who had been chosen beside her. But the visual of his name, Peeta Mellark, beside her sets off a new series of chain reactions in my heart. He is a boy from my grade who always had a funny way of popping up throughout my life when I needed him most. He has slipped me bread from his family's bakery when we were starving, helped me with school assignments when I was dangerously close to failing them, and given me tips about households that were interested in buying the game that Gale and I caught. His interest in my wellbeing becomes more incontrovertible the more I think on it. We were friends, I tell myself, nothing more. But didn't I think that Gale and I were only close friends until yesterday morning too? How naïve I have been about the people I thought I knew.
The next few days are filled with similar build-up as the field is examined and scrutinized and picked apart. All around the country, huge bets are taking place, probably more money than I'll ever see in my life. Prim's sudden valie as a long shot gives her life an ironic worth and I feel the hatred kindling in my heart again. I try my best just to focus on the extravagance on TV. I might go mad otherwise.
There are interviews with the stylists and their eccentric fashions, the escorts filled with praise about their tributes, the gamemakers who appear appropriately coy about the contents of the arena the tributes will encounter, and the more of the like. I have little mind for these festivities until they present the mentors. These are representatives from their corresponding districts, themselves victors from previous years of the Hunger Games. A dubious honor that accompanies the dubious honor of winning: becoming advisor to other misfortunates from your district, teach them and guide them, and then watch them die.
Ours is a man, Haymitch Abernathy, and if ever there was a more uninspiring candidate for the position of sole provider for our tributes inside the arena than he, I will eat my quiver. He appears distracted, eyes dull and skin pasty, effects of too much liquor and not enough sleep for the majority of his life. My heart sinks lower as Prim's slim chances seem even worse with him as her lifeline. Following this are interviews with prominent sponsors and other notable characters in the Capitol but I can no longer follow the incessant coverage. Suddenly my only wish is for this fanfare to be over. I need the Games to begin so I can know – one way or the other – the outcome for the girl tribute form District 12. Not the tribute, my sister. Primrose Everdeen. The waiting is killing me slowly.
However, like most things I wish for, it cannot be so. There is still Training coverage to watch, where each tribute is given a score based on the skills they showed the gamemakers during their auditions. Prim surprises me by receiving an 8 out of 12 which means she outscores even some of the stronger, fitter tributes. Was it possible that this little girl I have been protecting for so long is not quite as innocent as I've given her credit for? The middle of the road score will look good for sponsors without making her an obvious target from the other tributes. My face remembers how to smile and for a fleeting moment I wonder if I was too critical of her ability. After all, it takes a certain strength and grit to live in Seam regardless of how young or good your heart might be. A swell of pride rises in me – and settles right next to the gripping fear.
The next evening is the interviews. There are all the tributes I'd expect to see, in a different order and from different districts than years before, but all in all, the same types of children I've seen in the past. There are quiet ones, loud ones, private ones, intelligent ones, all kinds. Most chilling are the strong, bloodthirsty ones from Districts 1, 2, and 4. Here in the Seam we call them Careers because they've spent their whole lives preparing for becoming a tribute. Apparently it's quite an honor to represent those Districts in the Games. I cannot fathom ever living in a place that encourages this type of behavior, but it works. More often than not, the victor in the Games comes from these districts.
My musings are cut short when I see a tiny, innocent looking girl take the stage that I first mistake for Prim herself. But no, this girl's name is Rue and she's from District 11. Almost an exact copy of Prim herself, this girl has big bright eyes and a gown with shimmering, gossamer wings. She looks almost ethereal and this image is accentuated by the way she flits from question to question with an intelligent and mysterious manner. For the first time I realize that these girls have a weapon the big, burly Careers could never dream of: elusiveness. They could use it to their advantage. It would be essential to their survival. Would it be enough?
If Rue was intangible in her costume, Prim is vibrant when she appears onstage. She wears a vivid orange dress that covers her slight frame from the neck to her ankles, but the soft shimmering material flows with her every movement and accentuates her image from the opening procession. Red and white gems cover the dress so that every move makes the colors ripple. It is like the dress is alive. I realize belatedly that she is on fire once more – they've made her appear to be a living flame. My heart leaps with joy for her and tears form in the corners of my eyes. I want to reach through the screen and touch her, hold her, tell her that I love her. I want to tell her how vivacious and brilliant she looks. Young, but tantalizingly alive. Fiery.
She holds her own during the interview but, to be honest, I don't catch many of her actual words. I am gripping Mother and Gale's hands to the point of extremity and I am lost in Prim's eyes. It is remarkable how there is no pain or regret evident in them. There is an acceptance of her predicament but there is nothing resigned in her; there is fight in her eyes. Where did this girl come from? Or, and a pang resonates in my heart, was she there all along? Maybe I just didn't want to accept that my little Prim was starting to grow up, to grow into the world I wanted to protect her from.
Peeta is the last tribute to speak. He looks stunning in his coal black suit accented with the same red, orange, and white gems that give the flickering appearance of fire in certain light as well. He has a charm and wit about him, a cool confidence as he answers the interviewer's questions. I realize that I've never noticed this about him before. The sting of regret resonates in me for the missed opportunity of knowing him better. It has to be a missed opportunity because for her sake, I cannot accept any other possibility than Prim being the lone survivor.
But then he says something that takes my breath away. The interviewer asks him what would be his most motivating force inside the arena. He doesn't need to think about it. He looks deeply into the cameras and says, "My motivation will be to protect Primrose." The interviewer's eyebrows jet upward in surprise as do my own. "For Katniss," Peeta explains. "I'm in love with Katniss Everdeen. I always have been, as long as I can remember, and it is my final wish to help bring her sister home for her."
The world literally stops. It isn't until the pounding in my chest begins that I realize I haven't taken a breath in who knows how long. My eyes are glued to the screen as my mind reels trying to decipher this new information. Beside me I can feel Gale's reproachful gaze locked on me but I don't dare look at him. Instead I watch, paralyzed, as the Capitol crowd erupts in a frenzy. His time is up so they cannot ask him anymore questions. Was that intentional? I can't help but feel it was and that he had been speaking, just now, directly to me. Peeta rejoins the tributes quietly and they file out of the studio while the crowd is still in an uproar.
The interviewer tries his best to send off the coverage for the night but it's hard to hear him over the din. I know how he feels because the pounding of my heart in my chest drowns out most of everything else. Peeta and Prim. What if I had been there and it was Peeta and I on that stage tonight? Does this declaration help or hurt Prim with the others? And here, in the wake of this declaration, what do I do about Gale? My head is spinning and it's too full of thought and emotion for what feels like the millionth time in less than a week. The television screen turns to the still image of Panem's seal and I quickly excuse myself from the room. My mother and Gale watch me go without a word, or if there are words, I don't hear them.
