The hunger games- Petta Mellarks POV
Disclaimer- As all of you know I do NOT own this story. The amazing author: Suzanne Collins deserves full credit for this beautifully written book. However, I think I may deserve a teensy bit of recognition for writing it in Peeta's POV. ;)
Anyways,
Enjoy.
-AllyTaylor
Chapter 1- The tributes
I started my morning the very same as usual. Only it wasn't the same as any other carefree day. It was as far from "usual" as my days get. My demise. The one day of the year I wish I could just disappear. Reaping day.
I sighed, as I rolled out of bed and wiped the sleep from my eyes. I went to the kitchen to get a cup of water, and then walked sleepily back to my room. After a quick debate on whether to wash up, or just get dressed, I decided on the latter. Because in a few hours getting a bath wouldn't matter much anyways. I'd either be on a train to the capitol, in which case I wouldn't care, or I'd get to come back home and be able to wash up later.
I dressed in my very best clothes, and then sat on my bed, thinking. Like I do every year on reaping day. Hoping and praying that the giddy and ridiculous Effie Trinket does not pull my name out of her glass ball. Does not condemn me to my death. Hoping and praying that ignorant Effie does not pull Katniss's name either. The girl who doesn't know I exist. The girl I admire from a distance. Katniss Everdeen. I think of the day we met, five years ago. In the pouring rain. She was so close to death. She was giving up. But I helped her. And I wonder if she remembers. If she ever thinks about it. If I mean anything to her at all, or if I'm just the boy with the bread. I'm still engrossed in thought, when my father comes into my room. He's not a man a of many words. He smiled a small half-smile, and then gestured for me to follow him out to the kitchen. It must be time to go. He sat some bread in front of me, and a cup of hot tea.
"Eat up. Just in case." He murmured.
Just in case, I thought. In case what? In case I don't come home? In case this is my last meal with him ever? In case I'm the unlucky tribute from district 12? I threw these ideas around in my head, and suddenly lost any appetite that I had.
My brothers and my mother stumbled into the kitchen a few moments later. I glanced at the little clock above the stove. Time to go. We all walked to the center square of district 12. Where the reapings are always held. Attendance is mandatory, unless death is right around the corner, in which case there would be no point in going to the arena to fight. You see, what happens is there are twelve districts. There used to be thirteen, but that got blown off the map decades ago. Two tributes are chosen from every district. One boy, and one girl. That means if you are one of those unlucky people, you are fighting 23 others to the death. Only one person can survive.
How your name gets entered is simple: When you turn 12, your name is entered once. When you turn 13 your name is entered again, and so on. This happens until you're 18. But, here's the catch:
If you are starving, and desperate, you can enter your name as many times as you'd like, to get grain and oil to feed your family. Fortunately, I've never had to do this, so my name is only in there five times. But that doesn't stop me from being nervous. In that glass ball that Effie Trinket draws names from, there are five slips of paper all with "Peeta Mellark" written in my clumsy scrawl. Granted, there are thousands of slips in there so I have a pretty good chance of not being chosen. Still, my hands are shaking as Mayor Undersee reads his speech. It's the same exact one every year. He tells of the history of Panem, the country that rose out of the ashes of a place that was once called North America. He goes on and on about the disasters, the droughts, the storms, the fires, the encroaching seas that swallowed up so much of the land, a brutal war began for what little sustenance remained. The result was Panem, a shining capitol, ringed by thirteen districts, which brought prosperity and peace to its people. Then came the Dark Days, the uprising of the districts against the capitol. Twelve districts were defeated. The thirteenth was annihilated. The treaty of treason gave us new laws to guarantee peace, and as our yearly reminder that the dark days must never be repeated, it gave us the hunger games.
The rules are simple: The twenty-four tributes (1 boy and 1 girl from every district) are stranded in an outdoor arena, and made to fight to the death. The capitol treats the hunger games as a sport. The last tribute standing will be bombarded with gifts, prizes, and money.
I listen as the mayor reads the list of past district 12 tributes that have won, otherwise called victors. In seventy-four years there have only been two people from my district to ever win. Only one is still alive today. His name is Haymitch Abernathy, and he is a filthy drunk. I watch closely, as he staggers around the stage struggling to stay upright. The mayor is clearly embarrassed, as all of this is being shown on television. Trying to get the cameras away from Haymitch, he introduces Effie Trinket, and then takes his seat.
Effie waltzes to the stage happily, as if this is a celebration, and swings her hot pink curls around. "Happy hunger games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!" She recites cheerfully. I roll my eyes at her annoying joyfulness, and catch a glimpse of Katniss, a few feet away. She's staring straight at Gale Hawthorne, and he's staring back. I'm not usually a jealous person, but when I see those two together, which is a lot, I get upset. Because, it's completely obvious he's head over heels for her, just like me. And as reality sets in, I know she can only choose one of us. And I know it won't be me.
Effie breaks me from my thought-process, as she trots to the big glass ball in the middle of the stage.
"Ladies first!" She announces. She sticks her hand in, and pulls out a neatly folded slip of paper. I draw in a collective breath, as does everybody else. The whole district is silent as Effie announces the tribute. Please don't be Katniss, I mumble under my breath.
And it isn't.
It's her little sister.
Primrose Everdeen.