"Bigotry and judgment are the height of insecurity."
—Jasmine Guy

Prologue

Calm down, Peeta told himself, as shaky fingers grasped a graphite pencil in his hand, dragged it across the page in a deliberate, straight line. She's always like this, remember? Always so opinionated—always so disgusted with you. It's not like you haven't disappointed her before. She's only your mother.

At those words, Peeta stopped and closed his eyes. She's only your mother. The phrase was meant to remind him that what she said doesn't matter, but it mattered to him.

She had hit him again, and then promptly left the house. To do what, he didn't know. Peeta remembered holding his cheek in his hand as he trudged upstairs, meaning to go into the bathroom and check the area, see if it was a blotched pink from her hand, if the fingers could be seen, imprinted on his skin; but he only went to his room and slammed the door.

Mothers aren't supposed to beat their children, are they? Mothers don't force their sons to be only what they want to see on a credits sheet, so that they'll be the talk of the midday brunch; or so that, because of her child's success, they'll feel like they've outdone the neighbors just enough to edge their way into first place.

Mothers aren't monsters, demons who steal everything that is good and right in the world, are they?

Mothers are loving. Mothers care about what you aspire to be, what you think. They value your opinions and beliefs.

Don't they?

Peeta sighed. He sat up on the mattress, rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes. He felt the tears gathering there. Pathetic, he thought, for letting her get to you again. Even though he asked himself daily, "Why does she matter so much?" he never came up with a different answer than the present one: Because you want to be loved.

But everyone wants to be loved, don't they? They desire to be wanted, wish that they had someone to remind them that they cared.

"Ugh," muttered Peeta, letting his head fall to his hands, which rested on his knees. He only let himself sit like that for so long, before his eyes went to the nearly-blank, thick, sheet of drawing paper. What it was meant to be, he didn't know.

He tore it out in frustration, wanting to pull at his hair and let himself go. He wanted to break things, some days, but he couldn't—because he wouldn't be like his mother, a woman who used pain as an outlet. Pain on not herself, but those close to her. If you were not suffering when she needed to feel bolder or above you, she'd make it so.

She'd beat you senseless. Or, some days, she'd pummel your insides with her words. She had a tongue that stroked like that of a viper; with a venom of weaknesses at her disposal.

Peeta took a deep inhale, holding it until he couldn't any longer. He did this several times, all while running his thumbs over the crescent-moon-shaped scabs that clung to the skin of his wrists and forearms. Dark, angry and crusty red from Marie Mellark's nails as she held him in place and berated him for God-knows-what three days ago. He dug the tips of his fingers into his bruises, until the stinging sensation was too much. He made himself hurt, rather than letting his emotions take control. Acting impulsively is never the answer.

Calm down, he ordered, the voice in his mind much more demanding now because he wasn't listening to himself. Calm the fuck down, Mellark!

Several minutes passed, deep breathing filling the room. He thought of the girl that invaded his thoughts, the one he imagined in even more precise detail every time she broke his concentration on the task at hand. The teenager who was only herself, and was better than he'd ever be. In his mind's eye, he saw her as someone of character; she cared for him. She wanted to help, and she was really the only one that could.

She was always nameless. She never had a true identity, except for the heart of gold that he knew was inside of her chest, protected by rib bones and skin and muscle. And she was always alone; never with kin or a lover, a friend. Because she was all he needed. He had books full of her.

Today, she was laughing. Smiling. He had to capture it before her elusive expression and the childish dimples that dented her cheeks slipped away from him. He smiled at the image of her and smoothed his hands over the sort-of wrinkled paper of his sketch book.

Calm down, he reminded himself, one final time, before letting his adoration for the mysterious girl claim his hands as he set to work.

Sharp, dark angular eyes; lips, not-quite full, but thin and pleasing; waves of hair over her shoulders… She wore a dress that fell to her knees. Small, girlish flats on her feet that Peeta had seen ladies at school wear.

To him, she didn't have any flaws. She was perfect, while he was the screw-up.

"Momma," said a small girl, her eyes flecked with green and tugging on the taller, older woman's pant leg. "Can we do coloring today? I really want to do coloring today in class with you!"

Peeta lifted his head from where he sat at a small round table; the top was painted smoothly a bright red, and the surface was cool underneath his pudgy toddler hands. He looked over at the girl, whose eyes were alight as her mother smiled and nodded.

"Can we go sit with him?" the child asked, and a five year-old Peeta was glad to see her finger pointing towards him. He waved.

"Bonnie!" he called out.

"I don't see why not, sweetie," answered Kristen Folken, happy to oblige and glad that the boy's mother wasn't there. Mrs. Mellark and Mrs. Folken never really saw eye-to-eye, and so it was hard for the children to be friends except for on the playground.

Bonnie's blonde curls bounced around her rosy cheeks as she and her mother came closer, the mother carrying a plastic bin of crayons in one hand while her daughter pulled on the other. She broke away from Kristen as soon as she was in the vicinity of Peeta, pulling out a chair roughly and plopping down into it.

"What are you drawing?" she asked. Peeta shook his head.

"Can't," he replied. He really wanted to, though. Marie wouldn't have it. "Ma won't let me."

"Oh." Bonnie frowned. "You can help me color if you want," she suggested, trying to brighten the mood.

Peeta tilted his head in confusion. Would his mother be mad at him for coloring? For surely, she only said he couldn't draw. Coloring was different. After a minute, he decided that it would be alright.

"Okay."

"I don't know why your mom won't let you draw," Bonnie added, after a minute. She handed Peeta a green crayon. "My mom lets me."

"I don't know," he told her. "She don't like it, I guess."

"Peeta!" shouted a voice. It was demanding, and he knew it was his mother. "Get down here and help me with these!"

His heart seized in his chest. He didn't want to help her, sure that he'd do something wrong and that she'd punish him. In fact, he knew that something would go south. He was clumsy all the time around her, afraid that he'd mess what she wanted up in some way; he always did. Something. Anything.

"Coming!" he called; he was counting down the seconds until her keys would slide across the counter, and she'd come and find his drawings, spread over the bed in piles. Fifteen, fourteen, thirteen, twelve… She hated his hobby, has since he first took an interest when he was eleven. Nine, eight, seven… Peeta hurriedly began to conceal the evidence, pulling the corner of his mattress from the frame and wedging the Ziploc baggie of pencils and pastels between the slats that supported it. He licked his lips in worry, as he did every time, while stacking the papers and putting them into the collection of books, stuffing those into the case of his bottom, firmest pillow. He was running out of time. He knew it. Five, four three…

Peeta jumped off his bed after correcting the blankets from being rumpled and disorderly and ran downstairs. He always made sure that everything was in its spot, because if there was no reason for his mother to assist him in cleaning his room—not that she would—she wouldn't have the need to check.

Plastic bags were spread across the dining room table as he crossed into the living room. Groceries. That was completely normal. He breathed a sigh of relief, but the feeling was short-lived as he startled.

"There you are," said a watery tone to Peeta's left. He turned and saw Rooba, his mother's friend, with her arms full of similar sacks as those in the other room. "'Boy, you're so skittish. Go help your Ma with her things. I'll start putting these away in the pantry."

"Alright," he answered, nodding and making his way to his mother's Mercedes. He heard Rooba continue on as he left, saying that the woman was so tense today.

The car was black and chic and new-looking. It was washed once a week, the same day and time, which was when Marie went shopping. When she went, she bought an assortment of foods, all vegetarian or organic. She had to keep her figure, of course. Sometimes she brought home new items of clothing, too, and sometimes she didn't.

The first few trips that Peeta took between the house and the vehicle were fine. But on the third one, his mother was walking in front of him with only her purse; it was the last needed load of bags he needed to carry. He dropped an armful, and she whipped around to glare at him. Her look said, "You'll pay for that!" while she continued inside and her son gathered the purchases on the ground. A container of cottage cheese was cracked, and he held his hand over the slit, creamy white spilling into his palm as he took that and a few bottles of wine in his other hand into the kitchen. He then doubled back out and got the rest—he looped the remaining bags over his wrists, his arms shaking, but not from the effort it took.

He proceeded to put everything away after shutting the front door behind him.

Marie Mellark sidled up to her son. "Later," she warned him through gritted teeth, "after she is gone, I'm going to teach you a lesson. I thought you'd learn that I pay precious money to keep your blood pumping and your stomach full, Peeta!" She smiled tightly. "Now, run along upstairs, will you?" Her voice was louder, and she patted him on the shoulder with her wrinkled hand.

Later, Peeta thought, that hand will hurt so much more.

The day was cloudy. Peeta didn't like dreary days like these much. He frowned out the window, and wondered when his father would be home from his appointment; there seemed to be more and more of those nowadays. It didn't seem right.

Jerome Mellark's face was looking thinner, though Peeta, as young as he was—only around eight—didn't notice like everyone else did. Like the adults, who knew what was really going on in the middle-aged man's life.

To Peeta, his daddy looked tired. That was all.

On April seventeenth of 2009, Jerome came home from his doctor's office, rubbing his hand over his face wearily. Another blood test had been taken. He felt the weight of the pill bottle in his pocket—another antibiotic. It was only to ease him, cause him to fall asleep when he couldn't at night.

The nurses and trained specialists still couldn't figure out was wrong. And it didn't seem like it was going to happen anytime soon, either.

Peeta came barreling down the hall towards his father, arms outstretched, ready to give his father a 'giant bear hug' as they were called in the Mellark household, at least by Jerome himself. His wife didn't approve of the exaggerated name.

But then again, his wife, Marie, didn't agree to much. She didn't like many of the traditions that took place on her husband's side of the family; she didn't even go to Thanksgivings with her husband's parents, and was slowly wearing Jerome down so that he wouldn't, too.

Marie was manipulative. Always.

"Dad!"

"Hey, bud," said Jerome, picking his youngest son up and bringing him to his chest. "How are you today?" His voice softened at the end, and he sighed.

"Pretty good. Where'd you go? Mom said you went to an app…" Peeta stuttered with the word. "App-appoint…"

"Appointment," his father filled in, and he nodded.

"I had to get checked over, son," explained Jerome, patting the boy's head. "I'll be fine, though. Don't you worry."

He knew he shouldn't have said something that he couldn't predict.

Whatever news was to come, it wasn't going to be good.

On his first day of middle school, Peeta showed up to the brick building with a welt the size of his fist in diameter across his cheek. His father didn't do anything when his mother hit him, he wasn't even out of bed when it happened. He was having cramps in his leg, again, so Peeta didn't blame him; he just thought that maybe he'd help. The discoloration was red and angry-looking, just like all his bruises were. Only, as time passed, they grew darker and more of a purple-blue, but it didn't seem like they ever faded.

Either, there was a new one to replace it, or the skin never healed because he couldn't stop picking at the scabs, trying to see that maybe, if he just… ripped it off, his past would go away with the over layering. It didn't work—he didn't expect it to—so he stopped after a few weeks because his elbows were raw beneath his shirts.

Some people asked him what happened, how he got that first welt that stayed with him for over two weeks, but he always lied; he was becoming good at that now.

He wasn't sure if that was a good or bad thing.

That same day, Peeta met a cheerful boy by the name of Homes, and his personality was laid back like his own, so they became friends. It was awkward and stinted at first, as friendships are, conversing over regular things like video games, what their hobbies were, TV shows and books.

But they eventually stuck with each other, not like those mutual groups who only stayed together because you were on the football or cheerleading team with them.

Peeta went to study with Homes in the library when they had tests, and it worked out. As it went, Peeta struggled with history for a while and Homes, having a huge interest in it, became one of those teachers who made no sense sometimes but you still understood at the end, when you needed to. Homes, too, had a worst subject—and that was English; Peeta helped because the mechanics came easy to him; spelling wasn't hard, and he generally liked reading.

Sixth grade was a year on the upside for Peeta Mellark. That is, before everything came crashing down.