74th Annual Hunger Games.
It is the occasion of wrapped-up joy and encased smiles.
She stands at the televised stage, with cameras blinking colours - bright colours, so foreign and alien to the mining district. It almost hurts their eyes, being so bright - her outfit of purples and reds and harsh yellows. Too contrasting with the pastel colours of lilac and blonde, and the dirty browns and dark greens of the forest.
"Primrose Everdeen."
Slowly, the young girl's breathing hitches, her heart stopping. She is frozen, and the encased smiles aren't so icy any more. If anything, they have turned upside down, thick brows furrowed or raised. Primrose cannot tell the difference.
The only face she is looking at, is the one who holds the hand for her demise. The woman with the pale face and colourful apparel Sluggish footsteps against the dusty path, her face bitten with tears readying their fall. But she must be strong - for her sister, her mother, her District, her friends, and anyone who comes to her mind.
Primrose hears her sister's hoarse screaming and hopeless cries. Tears on her sister's face.
The peacekeepers block her. Primrose grips the mocking jay pin tighter.
Reaped from the field of fresh grass, her eyes watch to see if she can grow.
Rich Trains.
Even though she knows of her impending fate, Primrose can't help but adorn in the exquisite beauty of the train.
"I find it so wonderful that, even if it is just for a little while, you get to enjoy all this."
And being the naïve child that she is, she does. She takes in everything - the steely silver of the platters. The jams of strawberry on the French toast, each maroon delicately decorated with a unique shape. She applies that to the people of the world. She cannot eat the food. It isn't meant for her, even though nobody is opposing.
Peeta Mellark, the other tribute is. Primrose doesn't know him very well - he did seem nice and collected at school, he's the baker's son. His family bought cheese from her goat to make the cream cheese frosting on their yearly velvet cakes, the ones they gave to the miners on their annual holidays. Well, they did. Before...
His hair is sandy in colour and back-combed (a contrast to the olive skin and dark hair her district is famed for), and his face is a little too big. His mouth lopsided, but his smile is warm and comforting. If Primrose is to die (and she doesn't want to, but she will), she wishes it will be by his warm hands.
Effie Trinket - that's the colourful lady's name, wanders off to search for her mentor. Haymitch.
The name is familiar.
She doesn't question it's relevance. She wants to be like her sister - stronger, more independent. If she is to die, she wants to make no bonds. Katniss is a hunter - a survivor, a strong person, and Primrose wants to be like that.
But she is Primrose, and she will make friends, because it's the only skill she has.
Mentor.
That is what Haymitch is, right?
"Here's some advice; don't die. Happy Hunger Games. May the odds... be ever in your favour."
Primrose decides - she doesn't like this man. Not only does his apparel reek of the poison (she refuses to call it a drink) known as alcohol but he is treating her fate as a joke, a pass-time with a slurred voice. Hate does not come easy to a girl like Primrose. People always knew her as the girl who couldn't hate.
She has met her match.
The bottle is scarlet, and some of the liquid drips on his shirt as a result from the train turning. She stays quiet, reserved, only fiddling with the hem of her dress and sneaking small glances at the passing scenery. It is beautiful. Green-painted landscapes, with a tear of modern lifestyle down the middle. Much like the tear in her dress.
Haymitch curses and storms off, Peeta growls under his breath and follows in suit - "I'll talk to him," - it doesn't bring reassurance to her.
Tears spill down her plump cheeks, wails coughed out of her mouth.
She doesn't want to be here.
Primrose Everdeen wants to be home, milking her goat and listening to her sister's soft voice, telling her the fire won't catch her.
First Sight.
Primrose notices the change in Peeta, when they arrive.
The train stopped minutes before, and he gets up by the window. Primrose wants to chastise him to sit back down, to avoid the public eye - but that is what Katniss would do, and she is not Katniss; she never will be. So instead, she shyly peeks at the crowd, but she's looking at Peeta.
He smiles at her, almost as giddy as when she sees him decorating the cakes displayed in the bakery. The cakes with orange flowers with blooming petals and small, blue peacock designs. Beautiful feathers and odd designs for the children, art for the adults. He's almost like a child. Like a twelve-year-old girl being given a gift by their older sibling.
Peeta waves, his teeth remarkably brushed for someone constantly surrounded by sugar.
"They're looking at us."
Primrose wants to shake her head. 'They're looking at you.' She wants to correct him, but it is not her place to question an elder. It was one of the time-old lessons from her Father - to not question those she respected, unless it was wrong to her. But this seems fine, so she stays silent.
Glancing out the corrugated steel train, she notices the array of colours. The brightly done make-up and tangerine-coloured hats, the curled up quills dipped in cobalt and emerald. These are strange to her, and she doesn't want to look.
Primrose feels nauseous.
Peeta puts a hand on her shoulder.
It's too warm. He's too kind to kill, and she's too young to know any better.
Make-up.
There's too many tools, and Primrose is terrified.
No metallic tub or chipped jugs or hand-woven brushes for washing, these are catered by machines and checked over by coöperate eyes. She's on the table, in a gown she would see in old-fashioned films about hospitals back when people fought for freedom to. Now the Capitol claimed it was giving her people freedom from.
From what? Primrose didn't know. And she didn't question.
One man - the most natural (save for golden eye liner - but it suits him, Primrose reckons), smiles gently at her. And for the first time in a week, she smiles back, and gains enough courage to sit up.
"Hello there. You're Primrose, right?"
The blond girl is initially given nothing but shock. She's somewhat quaking with fear - was he here to question her? Intimidate her? ...Hurt her? She didn't want to be hurt by them any more than they had! She was going to die anyway!
"Y-yes..." Her response is timid, but valid. The man steps closer, and kneels to her level. Lowering himself.
"Don't be afraid of me or your prep-team, okay? My name is Cinna, and I'm here to help you anyway I can, Primrose. I promise." His voice is so sincere, so soothing, so soft - she wants to fall asleep on the cold table. It's not Katniss and her scratchy singing voice about beds of grass and green pillows, but it's a pond in a field of fire, so she's grateful.
Nodding, his grin softens, and Primrose is relaxed.
"Okay, then let's make you beautiful for your first arrival. Let's make you shine."
Beautiful. Something she is not.
She is a little duck - plain, pure and simple. The perfect bird for roasting.
Pedestal.
Primrose is astounded - how many people were here?
The stadium is packed - there are more than Primrose has strands on her head, counting the fallen ones. They have even brighter, bizarre clothing. Plaits weaved into the cords of the women's dresses, and the men's beards shaved to an about picture. Their hair is overdone and decorated with baubles and fruits (like a fruit-loaf at Christmas), and Primrose thinks they should be the ones on this podium, this carriage.
But they are not, and it's her and Peeta. Cinna decided that he wanted them to wow the crowds - rebellious, hardcore. Like the mines exploding, the ringing in her District's ears. Primrose wonders - how are her sister and mother? Are they a family, or arguing? Knowing Katniss, it is the latter. But a small part of her hoping they will love each other.
The violet and ruby flames rise up behind her, the blond-woven hair of hers catching light of the blaze. Primrose, if she wasn't so small, may have looked intimidating. But she looks oddly misplaced, too misguided. She sees some audience members gasp at Peeta and coo at her, but that won't be enough to keep her alive.
Peeta then whispers, "I'll lift you up, show you to the world. Your sister will see," and she complies, as he hoists her up with warm hands, colder than the fire. For a moment, she feels like the world is weightless, and despite everything, she is having fun.
Everything is calm before the storm.
Primrose doesn't like thunder. It's too precise, yet too wild.
Guilt.
Katniss bites her lip, drawing blood. She is proud.
Training.
Primrose decides - for the first time in her life, she hates something.
Oh, not Haymitch. Despite his bravado and prideful arrogance, she can sense something deep in him. Not a warmth like Cinna, but he's got some length of humanity and sympathy - especially for such a small child. She no longer feels the need to chide him for his alcohol addiction. If anything, she is used to it.
No, it's the training hall. She's clad in sportswear, the material allows her prim and proper skin to breathe, to show off the malnourished and emaciated figure of hers. Her body rivals that of the other young male tribute. Flat, no inch of muscle.
All the colours are metallic and cold. Like the Careers, like the Peace Keepers. Peace. She's forgotten what it is, what it means to feel calm. Her heart is constantly racing. The only warmth is the food up on the plateau.
How cruel. Even at their demise, the organisers feel the need to keep the social hierarchy.
Opinion.
Primrose isn't sure what to do.
She isn't like the Careers - Glimmer, Cato, Clove. They're trained hunters, specifically tailored for reaping down grass for the meat hidden within. One of the boys is her age, but his face is fearful. He looks younger than her - and this scares her, because in another world, he could have been her classmate. There's also a girl - who looks more like a fox than a girl. Primrose isn't sure what to say about her. She's incredibly smart. That's it.
One man - Thresh, is massive. He's like an ox, strong, hostile. She's only seen him smile once - when the girl from his district stole Cato's knife. She's agile, a tree-leaper. Orchard worker? Most likely. She's only heard stories about District 11 - they don't have much contact. Primrose wishes to be like her - more of a chance of survival than a healer.
Rue. That's her name. She's seen her following Peeta and herself, like a shadow. She's shy, but nice.
They could be friends.
If, well, they didn't have to kill each other.
Scoring.
She watches as Peeta nervously twiddle his thumbs, only offering a gaze of comfort.
It's scoring time, and Primrose has never felt so uncertain in her life. She wants to cry, for her mother to hold her, for her sister to sing and call her 'little duck' and tuck in her dress, ready for school. Her mind escaped to her old life - walking to class, apple in hand, or a primrose woven into her book. It needed replacing each day, but she pressed the flowers and wove them into a piece of cloth.
She'd never finish it now. If only - "Primrose Everdeen," - it's time for her scoring. May the odds be in her favour.
Peeta smiles at her, - "good luck," - as she walks into the room. They look at her with little interest, and she gulps. She a few skills - and Katniss did show her a few things, but she hates the thought of creatures dying, but she has no choice now.
She makes a few snares, demonstrates her quick-paced running and hiding. One man claps, the others giving no second thought. One has fallen asleep. Primrose wonders - what would have Katniss done? Shoot the apple of the pig, most likely.
But Primrose is not Katniss, and bows, before running out.
No sleep for her tonight.
But they may need to replace the pillow case. She's made it soggy with tears.
Interview.
Cinna had designed her dress again - and despite everything, she loves it.
Her hair is in double plaits, the white dress neatly falls to her knees (with some crumples and yellow bows, but she likes it). The sleeves end at her mid-forearm, but she doesn't mind. The dome is crystallized, like the train and the jewels on the hats, but it's clearer - see-through. All she can do is gaze in wonder, the people of the Capitol simply waiting for the tributes.
Oh. She forgot. Reaping. Hunger Games. Death. She wasn't a celebrity, she was going to die... now tears were coming to her cheeks again. Wiping them off (careful not to disturb Portia's make-up) she walks out to the interviewer, who greets her with a smile. It wasn't warm like Cinna's, rare like Katniss's, or welcoming like Effie's. It was scary.
"So, why do you think you'll win the Hunger Games?"
She pauses. Her father taught her to never lie, but Katniss has told her to not say things to get her into trouble. And she loves her sister more, who is alive. She wants to be stronger.
"I may look little, but I'm fast, and I have a sister waiting for me."
It isn't a lie. But it's not the truth.
"Well, you try and get home to her. Bring her all the treasures in the world, little miss."
Miss? Hit and run sounds better.
'Sorry for lying, father.'
Truth.
Her eyes are wide.
"I can't win... winning won't help me win that girl's heart. Because if I won... then she'd loose the one person who means more to her than anything. Her little sister."
And Primrose now knows why he was so kind to her. Why his eyes were so mature and warm and comforting when talking to her, why he always mentioned her sister and how she would be proud of her. How he spoke with such deeper meaning about her sister than most people write in a novel of hopes.
Peeta loved her sister. Deeply.
And that makes her very happy and so sad. Happy because someone could love Katniss besides family - could see past the façade and stoic nature of a hunter, but sad that he isn't able to marry her. It's a loose-loose situation. A selfish thought also arises. Nobody will ever look at her like that, with gentle and affectionate eyes.
Not because she is ugly, or jealous of her sister.
But she won't live long enough to get chance.
Bakery.
Katniss hasn't touched her arrows for two weeks.
Instead, she finds herself face-to-face with the one animal free from being butchered. Primrose's goat, the one that made them so much money from her milk, the goat she saved from certain death. She clasps it to her chest, wanting to feel the warmth of her sister. It's bristle fur, but Katniss would choose it over a bed of satin any day.
There's bread on the table. It's cold.
Her mother weeps silently.
Final Talk.
"Peeta?"
"Yes?"
"I... I'm scared."
"I am too."
"I thought grown-ups weren't scared of anything! My father always used to say that... that you grow up when you're very brave. When you can admit you're good and bad at something, that's being brave. So... so why are you scared?"
"Prim, being brave doesn't mean you can't be scared. And I'm not an adult yet. ... I won't be an adult."
"You're strong, you can win. You can win for District twelve! I don't like death, so I'll die before the first day..."
"Prim-"
"I-I don't want to die young! I want to live... I want to live, Peeta!"
No more words were needed at the point when Peeta clasps her to his chest, stroking her double-braids with warm hands and hushed whispers. Her body is cold and small. She is much too fragile, too delicate. In this hell, in this world he doesn't care to call home, they salute children to the death. Primrose is just a child. A simple, tiny child who needs protection.
He hears soft snores. Peeta places a single kiss to her forehead.
Endearing and dangerous. That's why they never show it on camera.
Sweetheart.
Haymitch puts down the bottle and puts on a clean shirt. He counts his money and the sponsor forms.
Thorns of a rose.
Cinna zips up her jacket - a complimentary gift - and places hands on her shoulders.
His hands seem colder, and he has no eye-liner on. Dark circles inhabit the curves below his shining orbs. A warm smile gives her a surge of hope, but a penny for her thoughts are sold, and she realises - she s already half-way gone. "I'm so sorry, Primrose," it's the last apology. He then zips down her jacket - aside her quaking shoulders and puffy eyes, she catches the molten glint of a mocking jay.
He places a finger to his lips, and Primrose lets a tear roll down her cheek. She is terrified.
One step.
Her mind escapes. From walking to school and waving to her neighbours. Writing in her books, sharpening her pencils when the lead breaks. Replacing it when the pencil gets too short. Chatting with her friends, plaiting their hair, letting the sun shine through her blonde tresses. District twelve is small, dirty - but the scenery is the most beautiful thing in the world to Primrose.
Two steps.
The explosion of the mines. The scarlet blood, that drips onto the miner's uniforms. How she cleans it up, ignoring the foul smell of blood and threshed insides, being ignorant of the sounds as she mixes the spicy remedies, how nauseous the colours of red and orange made her. She remembers her sister's fleeing, the only time Katniss has run from a problem and not faced up to it.
Three steps.
The dark days. Katniss would leave for hours to hunt (or to not face her mother's grieving eyes), whilst her mother sat distantly in the cold, dark house. No sound, no conversations, nothing. Primrose managed to smile, to braid her mother's hair, to kiss her mother goodnight and tuck her into bed. She was the wife, caring for the household. She felt responsible. She liked it.
Four steps.
Katniss.
Katniss.
Katniss.
Her beautiful, talented, wonderful older sister. Her big sister that could pierce a pig with silver arrows and a fervent, mature gaze. Primrose Everdeen's older sister, whose eyes could pinpoint any kind of nourishment, any source of living. The eyes who gave her hope to carry on with normality (despite the changes), day after day.
The survivor.
The door of the tube closes, and Primrose whips her head around, hands pressed against the glass. It's foolish - she wants to melt into the walls. She doesn't want to go. Cinna nods, his eyebrows creased and lips trembling. Primrose wants him to save her, but she remembers - he can't do anything to save her. Peace Keepers keep her from her life from being saved. Sentencing her to kill or be killed.
A short life severed by a sharp knife, held in the hands of the Capitol.
'If I die, I want to become a rainbow. So that when my sister and mother bury me in rose petals, my colours can shine over their sadness. I will lay down in the sky, and I shall become as rare as my sister's smile. When I do come, I shall be the most beautiful thing in the world.'
A/N: I shall be writing a chapter 2 to this. A few things of note;
-Prim making snares; I imagine, even though Prim hates death, she would have some experience helping Katniss practice making them. She is also pretty agile, as demonstrated in Mocking jay, where she's a run in healer. So I imagine she is pretty fast. Not Rue, but still agile.
-Prim's constant crying; If I get any complaints about this, I will scream. Remember guys - Prim is a girl who HATES killing, who hates hunting. You really think she's going to pull a mary-sue Katniss and be the next Wonderwoman? Children tend to cry when separated from the ones they love. It's natural.
I hope you guys enjoyed this. Any questions, feel free to leave in the review box or PM me.