The Hunger Games
Peeta's POV
Chapter 1
I'm painting a picture. A beautiful one. It's a sunset. The oranges and yellows and pinks and reds. I dip my brush in the red paint, but something's wrong. It's too thick. Its odor isn't stale and dry like paint. It smells of iron. I back away from the easel tentatively. In the process I knock the bucket of red paint over and slip in it. It takes mere seconds for me to realize that it isn't paint. It's blood. And I'm covered in it.
I bolt awake, sitting up straight with my eyes wide open. It was only a dream I remind myself a couple times before rising from my bed. I shed my night clothes and slip into the shower, shivering from the cold water that spouts weakly from the ceiling. When I come back into my room and see the dress shirt and pants placed on my bed I shudder. Reaping day. How could I have forgotten?
Fortunate enough to not have to take tesserae, my name will be in that large glass bowl five times this year. My brother's name will be in seven times. But he's eighteen and it never seems to occur to him that he could be chosen.
The thought terrifies me, but I don't have much time to dwell on it. Five times. That's not so bad, right? I had heard around town that Gale Hawthorne, a boy in my brother's year, has his name in forty plus times.
A selfish thought crosses my mind before I can stop it. If Gale is chosen maybe she'll bother to look my way. I shake the shameful thought from my head and finish with the buttons of my shirt.
In the bakery my mother is already yelling, treating today like any other. I tie an apron around my waist and neck and pull some dough that I prepared yesterday from the cold room. I lay it out and begin kneading and rolling it. Carefully, I press macadamia nuts and shriveled blue berries into the bread, making a silly face with the condiments.
I make this loaf large and place it in the oven, cooking it to perfection. No matter who gets chosen for this year's Hunger Games, my family will eat this roll as celebration tonight. It could be one of our dearest friends, but there is still cause to celebrate because it wasn't you who was chosen.
The thought sickens me. How can any person celebrate after watching someone practically sentenced to their death?
"Looks good son," My father claps me on the back, causing me to jump. I smile stiffly and wrap the bread in plastic, placing it in the cabinet. He father gives my shoulders a quick rub and throws me a sympathetic glance. He understands, having lost one of his childhood friends to The Games.
I open my mouth to speak, but suddenly my mother crashes through the door.
"Damn birds!" She exclaims, a picked-at loaf of bread currently being crushed in her fist. I seal my lips and duck out of the bakery as fast as I can, tossing the apron onto a hook.
The fresh air is a relief from my stuffed up home. My brothers are almost never to be seen, one working in the mines and the other just acting foolish most of the time. My mother's constant yelling is enough to suffocate anyone. I swear the only balance in my family is my father.
I aimlessly wander for a while allowing the nerves in my body to build to a boil. The streets are empty, most families relishing in what could be their last moments together. Catching a glimpse of the town clock, I rush home to lunch with my family for maybe the last time.
The rare steaming, fresh bread on the table makes my mouth water. Not often do we have anything but the stale bread that's left in the shop display at the end of week. I savor the goat milk butter that melts into my warm roll. When the cooked squirrel meat is set on the table I have no doubt that most of our meal is thanks to Katniss Everdeen. My father raves about her squirrels and her precise shooting skills. I know that the goat milk butter came from Katniss' little sister's goat.
The meal is silent as most of ours are. As a whole, my family isn't the best communicators. When I get the chance to just bake with my father is the time that I share most every thought.
Reaping day seems to be the only time our whole family is together, sadly enough. I love my brother's but they we were never particularly close. They baked because they had to. I the same, but I also enjoyed it. They spent most of their time together while I was either with my school friends or with my father.
As we clean the table I know the time is getting close. At two o' clock all of District 12 ages twelve to eighteen will be gathered in the square. My palms begin to sweat and I run them under cold water and then use that to slick my ash blonde hair back.
My brother is leaning against the door frame when I finally extricate myself from hiding.
"Ready?" He asks as if he has not a care in the world.
I nod, but all I want to do scream no and run away as any cowardly child would.
Child. We're all just children. Well, children being forced to become rabid animals that kill one another.
As we walk to the square the sun comes out from behind a patch of clouds and shines over. It's almost like a sick joke. Making this day seem happy or cheerful.
I give an absent wave to my brother and file into place. Boys on one side of the aisle, girls on the other. Youngest in front, oldest in back.
My family left not long after my brother and I, and I see them standing far back behind all the potential tributes.
I'm still staring at my family when the clock strikes two. I whip my head around to see Mayor Undersee take the stage. He wipes a bead of sweat from his brow and begins to read the story of how Panem came about. War, triumph, twelve districts, and a Capitol. For the uprising that happened seventy-five years ago, we must pay.
Talk about holding a grudge.
"The rules of the Hunger Games are simple. In punishment for the uprising, each of the twelve districts must provide one girl and one boy, called tributes, to participate." The mayor blabs on about what every kid already knows and fears, ending with, "It's a time for repentance and a time for thanks,"
He goes on to read the past victors, which is all of two. Only one is still alive.
"Haymitch Abernathy,"
As if on cue a drunken man stumbles across stage and topples the District 12 escort, Effie Trinket. It's fairly safe to assume this is Haymitch. I'd heard rumors about the unstable victor that seemed over exaggerated. I reassess this when I finally see him in person.
A flushed Effie (not that you could really tell with all the makeup) makes her way up to the stage. I stifle a laugh in this serious moment, but her pink wig is practically toppling!
"Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!" I mouth this last line with her, shaking my head at the absurdity. I gesture good luck to my friends while Effie blathers on about how honored she is to be here. In reality, she probably hoped for a better district. No one wants 12 for anything except coal.
"Ladies first!" Effie shimmies off her gloves and dips her pale pink hand in the bowl to her right. She pulls the slip and slowly unfolds it. It all happens pretty quickly after that.
"Primrose Everdeen!" Katniss' sister barely takes a step before Katniss volunteers for her. They embrace and then four Peacekeepers escort her onto stage.
Effie tries to argue that we should meet Primrose and then allow Katniss to volunteer, but gives up quickly. Gale Hawthorne unlatches a screaming Primrose from Katniss and she makes her way up to the stage.
She looks lovely with her hair all braided up and in that light blue dress that so compliments her olive skin, but her entire body is rigid. I already want to reach for her, volunteer for her if that were even possible.
"What's your name?" Effie asks, her voice full of excitement. Maybe District 12 is good for something. A little drama on Panem TV.
"Katniss Everdeen," It seems to barely escape her mouth. Effie says an inappropriately timed alliteration about buttons and next thing I know she's shoving her hand in the boys bowl.
I think of it almost as a fish tank. Which unlucky fish will be chosen and end up as tonight's dinner?
"Peeta Mellark!"
I'm the unlucky fish.