Summary: Peeta's life/childhood before the Hunger Games
*I do not own any of Suzzane Collin's characters or the Hunger Games*
I coughed as the flower from my hands flew off into my face as I clapped them once with a massive puff. The air around me flooded into a mixture of chalky white; my vision consumed with what seemed like a glittery snow storm.
The familiar texture of the messy kitchen air filled my lungs; almost as familiar as the deep, almost sickening aroma of fresh bread. When my brothers and I were younger, we would crowd around our bedroom door, pushing one another over just to get a mild wiff of tomorrows loaves coming out of the oven; now we just dreaded it, blocked our noises while we worked. It had become so bitter sweet, having to be around the wonderful array of food day after day while we could only eat what had gone bad. Sitting in a pool of color and listening to the softness of breaking crust while we sat gnawing on our bread stale; silently letting our gazes drop to the floor until we left. The smell of the bread just made us sick to our stomachs now. I didn't really understand the whole process when I was little; having to sweep the floors while my brothers worked I just always assumed we ate everything we made. It got harder as I grew; having to decorate beautifully elaborate cakes and watched as they were almost swallowed whole by the rich and the greedy. We had more money than most of the district of course; at least more than those in the Seam, but not enough to, as my mother would say, "Waste what we made on ourselves". None of us would've dared taken anything that was supposed to be sold though; we were much too scared of our mother for that. Sometimes, Rye and I figured, she would wonder around the bakery, hoping to find something we did wrong so she could punish us; you know, just for something to do. Someone to blame. I scurried back over to the cakes as she walked by, shooting me a glare before I shot my head back down to my work. My father had been sitting on the window ledge for hours; just watching as various people and animals scurried by past the main shop window. He did that often, just posed himself in a position for hours, thoughtlessly watching the world move slowly by. I always wondered to myself why he would do it; torture himself like that. To b
e completely honest, I wondered why he had chosen this life at all; stuck miserably and depressed in a life he didn't want to have with a woman he didn't want to marry. I knew he didn't love her, or maybe he did. He seemed like he was only barely attempting to put up with her daily madness for Rye, Chris, and I, so we felt guilty about it sometimes. I swung back around as I felt my mother's breathe, hot on my neck.
"I thought you said you made 5 cupcakes." she said slowly, obviously expecting that I had committed some giant crime.
"I told you I was only making 4..."
"There's one missing." she snapped, pointing to the counter.
"That's because I only made 4."
"You're lying. You took one..."
"No, I only made..."
Instantly she had gripped me by the collar of my shirt and was holding me up against the wall. My father barley seemed to notice.
"What did I say, about stealing from the bakery..."
"I didn't..." my words were cut off from her grip tightening against my throat. My breathing was heavy.
"Make them all again; every last one. All of them, not one missing Peeta." she snapped, releasing her grip as I tumbled to the ground.
"Get up and get to work before I give you a reason to be lying down." she threatened, shaking her fist but baking it away once I flinched.