Running, I'm running now. The sweat drips down my face and I am running from something…but what? My heart races against my ribcage. I can feel the darkness creeping up on me, creeping slowly…
I wake up, gasping as sweat drips down my face. I look around the unfamiliar room and see that it's early in the morning—about 6:00. I sink back down into the plush, soft bed that can only be one that District 1 made for the Capitol. As soon as I lay my head down, I am bombarded with Gaelyn's overenthusiastic voice trilling wake-up calls through the door. I groan as I unwillingly get up and open the door for her.
As Gaelyn walks this way and that, discussing the outfit changes and events for the day, I can't help but wonder if every District Representative behaves in this overly-cheery, annoying manner. She runs her mouth and I slump against the foot of the bed until she picks me up by my arm saying, "Heeeyyy, do you hear me talking to you?" She loosens her grip on my arm for a minute, ponders, and then has the nerve to ask the question I had hoped she wouldn't, "Aren't you a little…scrawny for a Career kid?"
Inhaling deeply with a scowl ever sliding onto my face, I slowly begin. "No... I just don't devote my whole life to kill and be killed, like Marvel." I am determined leave it at that, but Gaelyn doesn't seem to be satisfied. I can tell by the way she cocks her head to the side like a confused puppy.
"Don't frown. You'll get premature wrinkles, and we don't want that, do we?"
Great. Here I am worried about my life, when Gaelyn's biggest worry for me is that I'll somehow end up getting parentheses around my mouth, and that the Capitol will have to spend the time giving me botox injections like the rest of them. I roll my eyes obviously, while she quickly lays out a white button-down shirt and crisp khaki pants with brown boots for me to wear to training.
I don't talk to anyone at the breakfast table, especially not Marvel, who I know I will have to kill in the arena. Best not to make friends now. As I walk past the table, though, something catches my eye on the TV screen. I watch intently as the reporters recap the opening ceremonies last night. They briefly show Marvel and I, looking like a pair of two glamorous, luscious red strawberries with gold hints here and there, and other tributes; but the one that catches my eye is at the very end, when the most footage is shown. It's the boy—my boy—from District 12. A slow blush immediately tints my entire body, and I begin to go weak at the knees. The cameras briefly show his face; that genuine, friendly smile, that sophisticated coiffed blond hair under the flaming headdress, those beautiful, bright, baby-blue eyes that stood out on him most of all. Then the cameras zoom in closer, so that the viewer can see what the hot talk is about. I see the boy and his female partner holding hands, and my heart drops. My face flushes when I see how beautiful she is, and I think that she may be one of the most uniquely beautiful girls I've ever seen. Something wicked brews inside of me, making me even more determined to kill this girl.
Marvel looks up and sees how angry my face is. Then he begins to do the most irritating thing: laugh. He's laughing at my weakness. He's laughing at my jealousy. Most of all, he's laughing at the intent to kill clearly written on my face.
"They're D-12 kids. They won't stand a chance," he says, still smiling. We District 1 kids consider ourselves superior to other districts to the point where we don't even acknowledge them as districts. We just call them "D-something." I began to consider the truth in his statement. In all seventy-five years the Hunger Games have been around, only 3 people have won from District 12. That's nothing compared to the droves of kids who win from the Career's districts. For some reason, this comforts me in my ability to kill these D-12ers.
In group training, I try out the different stations, keeping my eyes fixed on the girl from D-12. I stare her down, but she doesn't even acknowledge me. I begin to make my way towards the boy, who is at the camouflage station—which I am no good at—squatting down to arrange the grasses and mud that lie on the ground in bowls. As I reach for the grass to camouflage a dummy, my fingers accidentally brush his, and I blush.
"Oh…sorry," I say, afraid I've somehow repelled him. He doesn't actually look in my eyes as he says, "It's fine," he says, and I realize I still don't know his name. I turn to him, and fully take in his features; the straight, slightly upturned nose, the swishy, wavy blond hair, the full lips that have spread into a bit of a half-smile as he still doesn't look at me with those blue eyes. I introduce myself.
"My name is Breelle, but you can call me Bree."
With this, the boy turns to look at me. It is then when I see his eyes, wide with dilated pupils. He knocks over the bowl of mud and scrambles to clean it up, while I blush, thinking I did something wrong. He turns a bright shade of red and shyly says, "Uh, hi. Sorry, my name is Peeta. Nice to meet you." Peeta holds out his hand while I stare at it like an idiot. Then, he looks down to see that it is covered in mud and quickly withdraws it. "Oh," he mutters.
Before I realize it, I'm smiling and grabbing his other hand, shaking it firmly. Then I quickly let go, reminding myself that there is no room for love in the Games, but I also notice that he is helplessly staring at his female tribute. I'm curious, so I ask, "What's her name?"
Peeta breathes in sharply, snapping out of his momentary daze. "Um, Katniss," he says quickly. Katniss. So that was her name. She's named after an aquatic plant. That's attractive.
A long moment of silence passes between us before I finally say, "She's pretty," and I realize that I'm not lying. She has long, straight black hair that goes with her lean, athletic frame. Her eyes are gray, which is a stark contrast to her olive skin. She looks like she could send an arrow right through my brain if she wanted to, and then I remember that she does. I remember that Peeta is my enemy. I remember that he wants to kill me too, just like everyone in this room.
While Peeta squats on the ground, staring at me like an idiot, I get up and saunter off without another word. It's on.