Chapter 1

My hands are convulsing so much that the cracked tube of lipstick falls from my grasp and clatters against the faded mirror as I try to apply it to my face. I freeze for a moment, terrified that I have awoken Prim or Mother, before getting my fingers under control enough to apply the rouge to my lips.

I continue with eye shadow, a little easier in application, before riding the garter from Mother's wedding high up my thigh. Seizing a flask from the kitchen table, I take a long slug of alcohol (which I stole from Mother's liquor cabinet she needs for her healing business) before securing the flask into a holster of the garter. Both I now cover with the blue Reaping dress that is a hand-me-down from my mother's upbringing as a Merchant. Checking myself over one last time, I take a deep breath as I ready myself to do what must be done tonight.

First the rivers and the fish dried up. Then the forest fires drove away all the deer and other game and destroyed any sustenance that might come from the plants. And this brutal summer will still have its grip on District 12 for several months yet. With nothing to trade and no food to eat, we have been relying on Mother's Healing business and the edible barterings from her patients just to get by. Money for us has been scarce.

Eventually driving me to this point. The sacrifice of my pride.

It's amazing I have avoided it for as long as I have. Other girls have been driven to Cray's door, and the prostitution ring he runs out of his home in the Peacekeeper Barracks, faster than I. And the idea of sex or anything remotely related to romance has always repulsed me. Only Prim's hungry, pleading eyes could compel me to go against my deepest principle: to never marry, nor have children of my own.

It is mid-summer, the hot air stifling everything around me until I am choking on it as I head out into the night. The Reaping for the Hunger Games a few weeks hence will only make things worse.

The Barracks are quite a trek from where I live in the Seam, so the streetlights are lit on deserted pathways and only crickets chirp by the time I see Cray's house towering over the rest of the Barracks in the distance.

I enter the compound, only to be stopped yards from Cray's door, when a beam of light shines down on me.

I freeze, like the wild animals I hunt, frantically working through my options for self-preservation. The last thing I wanted was for anyone to witness me selling myself. Anyone I know, anyway. And now someone has.

Darius Freeman is a 20-year-old Peacekeeper cadet, with flaming red hair down to his shoulders. Unlike his compatriots, he is friendly and trades handsomely for my kills. He's also a bit of a flirt, as he's offered to give me a kiss as payment on more than one occasion. I've never taken him up on it.

"Katniss?" He blinks and smiles, as if he is surprised to see me. "What are you doing out here?"

So he doesn't know. Maybe I could lie or run before he has a chance to figure it out, even as he looks up and down my dress appreciatively. Then he takes in the boots much to big for my feet. And that I have makeup on. I never wear makeup, even if there is little my family could afford. His eyes widen, and I want to cry. He knows.

"Katniss, no," he breathes.

I turn to run before I even really know where I am going. Should I bolt for home and have deniability in the morning, and hope Darius will maintain his silence? Or do I make the final mad sprint for Cray's door, elbow the line of other girls there aside and throw myself at the Head Peacekeeper? Because I am indecisive, Darius has time to grab my arm.

"Let me go!" I choke out, beg, through my tears.

"No, please, no..." And I am startled to hear pain in Darius's voice as he drags me into the dark shadows beside his home in the Barracks. Pulled along and still fighting him, my feet in these damn boots slip in the dirt and I grab onto human flesh to keep from falling.

The human turns out to be Darius, who now has me by the waist, even as my arms are draped clumsily about his neck to keep myself upright. Panting, my grey eyes stare into his deep blue ones. I regard him almost stupidly, slack-jawed even, as I feel my heart oddly start to race.

I feel warmth flood my cheek as I sense Darius's paw of a hand cradling my face there. An odd music, an unfamiliar haunting tune, dances in my ears as I suddenly find myself compelled to draw closer, as my hands come to rest on the white undershirt of his uniform, torn at the sleeves. A light summer's rain has begun to pelt down around us, but it does nothing to stop us now... before... we... kiss...

Our lips have not yet become one, and I faintly notice Darius's free hand fondling the single braid running down my back, when a sharp BANG breaks the spell we are in. Still in our compromising position, Darius and I peer around the corner and out of the darkness to see Cray's hulking form cast a shadow on the line of girls, by the light of the street lamp. He picks a pretty little thing with blonde hair before disappearing with her and a door closing of damning finality.

It only dawns on me right then that I just lost my chance, and I am in the arms of another man, so I push Darius away and turn to leave in a huff before he catches my hand.

"Please," he implores. "Come inside."

Scowling at him, I reluctantly follow. Darius's home is really just a room. A bed in one corner with the kitchen and fireplace opposite. Table and chairs in the middle. I take a seat in one as Darius stokes up the fire. Freeing the flask from the garter high up my thigh, I take a long swig. The lightheaded feeling is almost immediate. I see Darius watching me with sad sympathy, but he passes no judgement. Doesn't matter. His pity is judgement enough.

Neither of us speaks as I sit there for many hours, taking shot after shot from the flask. Even as the alcohol should loosen my tongue, I remain taciturn, drinking my sorrows and the shame of what I almost did away. Darius does not pry; he doesn't need to. Any inquiries he may have he can work out for himself.

It's been many hours (at least I think it has been) when Darius suggests, "You can't drink your meals, you know."

On the contrary, I've seen Haymitch Abernathy - one of District 12's two Victors of the Hunger Games - do it all the time, but I don't retort as Darius crosses to the pantry, then the fire. My eyes are swimming just as much as my head as I watch him toast a bit of bread over the flames. Now, where have I seen this before? I surely have, but I can't remember when nor for what purpose...

Darius sits across from me, and sharing the bread, we eat it in silence. The bread tastes good, but I feel like something is missing... a step I have forgotten...

Darius is just rising from his chair, perhaps to bid me goodnight, when I remember. I pull him deliberately into my lap and kiss him on the lips, long and slow and proper.

And drunken. A drunken kiss. But even if I was sober, my kissing skills would be awful. In fact, I vaguely remind myself that this is my first kiss, as Darius embraces me, his mouth opens to mine and our tongues battle for dominance. I taste errant bread crumbs there.

After several minutes, I break the kiss, rising from my chair so that I unceremoniously dump Darius off my lap and onto the floor.

"Good night," I slur. And I stagger out his door and along the deathly silent streets for home.

I fall into my own bed, asleep before my head even hits the pillow.