Readers! I am tackling the task of writing the Hunger Games in Peeta's point of view. That said, I'm not sure if I'll end up changing things around that happen in all three stories but right now I plan on adhering to the book. As always I own nothing and give props to Suzanne Collins who is absolutely brilliant. It's been a long time since a book actually makes me pause and reflect on life. Well, here goes nothing. Enjoy and Review!

1

My hand runs over the dough one last time before I form it into a neat shape, just like the rest of the dough mounds on the table. This will be my last batch before the day concludes, before the reaping. The words fog my brain like someone's set fire to my thoughts and takes pleasure in watching them burn. I shouldn't let it consume me, but it does. The Capitol has taken pleasure in flinging children into the arena for seventy-three years, molding them into chess pieces for their own private games. They sit comfortably in a cushioned lounge, their smug smiles and twisted grins covered by thick layers of make up. They stroke their face and take pride in believing that the slaughter of humans is the best form of entertainment imaginable. It makes me sick.

I turn to the flower cookies I just iced and sneak one away, hoping that neither of my parents notice. They shouldn't be bothered today because I'm the one who will be facing the life and death today. I could be picked, any of my siblings could be. I wish this morning I could have savored the last few hours I spent decorating those cookies, I think to myself. It's the only real passion and talent I can muster. It keeps me occupied which is why, since last week, I have produced more lavish baked goods than ever before. My dad doesn't question my motives, he simply arranges them in the store window. My mother, however, finds any moment to scold me and, if I'm not careful, punish me.

I don't know why I'm so bothered by it this year. While the clock ticks closer to the names being plucked from the glass bowl, a new disgruntled idea of hatred clogs my mind.I have a very unlikely chance of being picked because so many other children have their names entered in vast quantities for a chance at tessera. I stand outside the bakery just to see Katniss Everdeen stroll by the market. Her eyes are focused as always, I know that's she is always thinking of things that far exceed her age. This is why I'm angry with the Hunger Games. It's because someone like Katniss could go in, and me, the baker's son, would never get the chance to tell her the things I clutch close to my heart.

I know I need to get dressed soon and head to square but my mouth turns into chalk. Certainly I could never tell her my feelings because if she went into the Hunger Games she might not make it out and if she is spared I could never get past Gale. I had to stop dwelling on things that were clearly out of my reach. I had to move past this for today to have some kind of clear head.

Once in the square I quietly file into place. I search the crowd for Katniss quickly and I see her, the eyes filled with something I can't describe. It wasn't fear or over confidence. It almost seemed like she was filled with rage and longing to forge a path to abandon whatever is here all at the same time. I'm barely listening to anything when one thing comes to my mind. If Katniss was somehow picked, she would survive. I knew it from all the years I'd seen her come back with game attached to her belt. She could hunt rather than wait to be hunted. This somewhat soothed me. Effie Trinket comes to the stage and is as bubbly as ever. She, of course, loves the games which makes the other people of district 12 shutter with fear and anger.

I'm still blocking the sound out from the podium. I have no interest in anyone glorifying the games. If my name is not called I can just file out silently and leave everyone else. I can hate the Capitol in the comfort of solitude. My head jerks up from watching the dirt for the first time since I stopped looking at Katniss. A name has been called and I don't know what destructive end will meet these words. It's Katniss's sister, Primrose Everdeen.

I don't try to find her again because I can imagine the blow that has just been delivered to her. I know that I will never be the one to comfort her but I am glad she has someone to turn to. You would think that I wouldn't be so attached to her because she doesn't even know I exist, but I am. It's the way her presence fills the room, like some drug people in the Capitol get hooked on. The presence that makes me pine for her. My head is deafeningly silent when I hear the next words spill out of the crowd. A gasp, a familiar voice and a statement that carries a potential death sentence.

"I volunteer!" Katniss barley chokes out. "I volunteer as tribute."

I still don't look but I can hear Primrose's screaming objections. I keep focused because although Katniss has been called, there is nothing that can be done to save her. The boy's names haven't been called and I can think of only one thing. If Gale were a tribute he'd probably send her home as a victor. It's barbaric because he has his own family to take care of, I realize that now after the image of his name being drawn washes from my brain. He shouldn't be called as tribute, no one should be called in the first place.

I can't tell what's going through Katniss's brain because I have no clue what would be going though mine if I were called as a tribute. I just pick a spot on the stage to stare at while Effie recovers from the surprise of a volunteer. I don't know why my brain shifts back to the memory when I threw Katniss those burnt loves of bread. When my mother hit me and when I decided I didn't care. I had to help her because I cared so much about her, someone I hardly knew. I see Effie reach down into the bowl and clutch another piece of paper. I hold my breath because you never real know if the odds will be in your favor. Each second that ticks by is marked by anticipation mixed with fear. I don't know what I'd do if my name were called but it becomes clear that I have to find out because the last thing I hear before I shut down is...

"Peeta Mellark!"