The boy with the long fingers
He said that he fell in love with the girl in the red dress, but who did the girl in the red dress fall in love with? The boy with the long fingers would be the answer.
The first time she noticed him was outside of his bakery, she was being berated by the baker's wife. But even then, as she was shouted at, she noticed a pair of bright eyes, peeking out the door, her heart rose. Maybe he would help her? The little boy went back through the door, and her heart dropped. As the woman went back in, she stood there montionlessly, this was her last chance to get food, and she needed a chance to do anything, just anything to get food to her family. But only minutes passed before the boy appeared again, this time, holding two burnt loaves in his hand. She was mesmorized, she has never seen a boy, no, anyone with fingers like him. He was pale with golden hair, and she was fascinated with the way his fingers moved as he quickly tore off the bit of black bread and threw the bread to her. She almost didn't react, but as she moved her eyes up, she did not only see his boyishly handsome face, what she also saw were the marks of a hand, a hand that was much bigger. She wondered, was it the baker's wife? Would she do that to her son? But yes or no, the memory was forever burned into her mind.
The second time was five years apart, the dreaded reaping. She walked numbly onto the stage, and heard a name being called. Her eyes widened. It couldn't be! The boy with the burnt bread? The red marks on his face were long gone, and the face was only left with the not quite grown up, but with the determined look of an adult, but there was fear in his eyes. She did not want to see that, not to him. His hands were clutching his pants, his fingers twitching against the fabric. The fingers are still pale, still long. She decided it didn't match with the stocky build of the boy, but she liked it anyways.
The third time, the fingers were threaded through hers. They were waving and smiling to the crowd, but he was shaking through fear, she could feel him trembling besides her. His lips were pale and his eyes frightened, through them, she saw uncertainty, and she knew he saw it in her eyes too. Uncertain if they were going to make it through, with or without each other. She liked the feeling of her hand in his. It felt nice, secure, warm. She felt protected when he holds her hand.
The fourth time, the hands were trembling as she looked at his face on the big screen. It couldn't be, the boy with the long fingers cannot love her, a girl from the seam. The fingers are fidgeting against his shirt, the contrast in colour is beautiful, but she couldn't help but notice for the first time just how good looking he truly is. But even though now, the audience are crying and Cesar has tears in his eyes, she knows they could never be, star crossed lovers, she thought bitterly. It couldn't get them through the brutal games, love or not, she was sure at least one, if not two of the pair would die. Her mind wondered if they both lived, would the games be now known as the story of the star crossed lovers? She laughed silently to herself, tears threatening to come down. It could never be. They wont be that lucky.
The fifth time, things were different, he was under a tree, and her, on top. He was holding a knife in his hand, there was blood on it. She did't like it, not at all. He was pure, wholesome, innocent, it killed her to see him like this. She had a knife in her hand too, one, two, three. The branch fell down. Angry bees swarmed around the trees, injecting their poison into anyone they can find. Katniss didn't care for herself as she saw the delicate pale fingers getting stung, she did not wish for that to happen. She watched in horror as they swelled instantly to thrice the normal size, and not even caring about herself. She didn't mean it to happen, not to him. The momentary discomfort was overruled by the need to survive. He was just another foe, she chanted repeatedly, he was not the boy with the bread now, he's just a foe. And it worked.
The sixth time, his fingers were bandaging her head, albeit little clumsy and not half as good as Katniss could've done herself, she appreciated it. She suspected that it was all for their act of star crossed lovers, she hoped not. She knew in her heart that she liked him, but as long as they were still in the arena, it wouldn't happen, but she would make sure that his fingers wouldn't get stained anymore, not with her blood, when the time comes. She didn't want to think what would happen then.
The seventh time, he was holding a knife, trembling, he brought it up. She was scared, she didn't want it to end that quickly. She wanted to be the good person, to let him live, but she couldn't. She was so selfish to let herself go. And in a split second's decision, she raised her bow. What she didn't expect was him to point the knife to himself, the pale long fingers almost touching the blade. He raised his eyebrows at her bow, he dropped his knife. He said that she could end him however she wanted to. But she couldn't, what she had felt for him over the games. She couldn't kill him.
The eighth time, they were clenched into fists. She just couldn't tell him that her feelings were real. She was afraid of rejection, but what she saw in his eyes, it was much much worse than rejection. The anger she didn't mind, he could take it out on her for all the regret she was feeling. But she didn't expect sadness, she didn't expect that it wasn't just an act to him. The feelings in his eyes are so real, when she looked into his eyes, she truly saw into his soul. They couldn't hide anything, she was sure of it. The fingers slowly unclenched, his nails leaving red marks in his palms, he told her to leave, she did. She didn't cry, and if she did, she would never tell him.
The ninth time, a paint brush was in his hand, she watched as he paints the scenes, one upon another horrific scenes, from their time together in the arena. It helps him sleep a good night's sleep, he claimed. So she watched, as he painted precise strokes of the very realistic scenes. With her arms around her knees, she watched. She watched the painter paint his masterpiece, the paint brush dancing on the canvas, and most of all- the long pale fingers curled around the paintbrush. She was suddenly filled with some faded, some sharp memories of his fingers tearing off bread, his fingers holding hers, his fingers bandaging her head. And just now, his fingers dancing with the brush. He put the brush down, glancing at her. She crawled into bed with him, her nightmares fleeting away as she once again, held those long fingers in hers.
The tenth time, they are entering the arena again, before they left, she felt his hand on hers, giving it a squeeze. She knew now that whereever she's going, he will be there too.
Over the ten times Katniss Everdeen noticed Peeta Mellark's fingers, she fell in love.
The end
Michelle, can you refrain from laughing at my finger fetish while you read this?