Paints

I swirled the colours on the floor, mixing reds and yellows to make an orangey colour against the sandy boards of wood. I could hear murmurings behind my head; they don't know what I'm doing because I've knelt with my back to them. I wasn't planning on moving until I was completely finished. I daubed my fingers in the yellow and smoothed circles of it onto Rue's image. It was the sunset from her last evening. The spear in her stomach was ugly and harsh in colour, I was done. I stood and left the room, listening to their gasps.

Eating

You sold the good bread and ate the bad. That's how life worked in a bakery. Never would you be able to taste your work, if it was decent enough looking to sell, then it was sold. The beautifully decorated cakes in the window could only be eaten if they went stale, no one would buy stale cakes. Sometimes you felt you would rather be from the Seam, if only so you could hunt out fresh food every day, instead of living on tough old bread. But the starving children haunt you, so you take your bread and eat it.

Echo

He came back from the games a changed man. The happy glint that was always in his eye had gone, even when he had been given a smack for doing something wrong, it had been there. He didn't laugh any more, he didn't smile; he didn't do anything. Sure, the house we lived in now was roomier, and we could afford a better oven for baking bread in, but it was like Peeta had never come back from the games. He was a shadow of the boy he once was. He was an echo of the man he might become.

Tolerant

Peeta would sit at the dining table with a plate of cakes beside him. He would ice each one differently; no two patterns were the same. Like snowflakes, he liked to think, each one unique and beautiful. He tried to teach his older brother how to do it once; he sat him down at the table and gave him a cake and the decorations. His brother had tried, but he hadn't been gentle enough, his impatient hands had made the cake look hurried and the picture was askew. Peeta was the cake maker in the family, he had the patience.

Antagonistic

Sometimes I feel like the antagonist in this story that is our life. I knew Gale loved Katniss, I could have kept my mouth shut; I didn't have to declare my undying love for her on live television. I knew that at least one of us would have to die and I had just made it a whole lot more humiliating for Katniss. I did it to save my own skin, to get sponsors, I was selfish. I could just imagine Gale's face; shock, then realisation, then anger at me for taking away his chance of happiness. I was heartless.

A/N: I hope you liked this. I'm planning on doing a few more like this, any preferences on which characters I use? Please comment x