Authors Notes:
Just some quick bullets before we start:
-Hi to my new followers! Seven more! It's not much but I'm still ginning like a fool ;)
-I'll try to update weekly, but with school going I might not be on time. I'll do my best though.
-My goal will be to post them on Mondays (Key word: goal)
-This chapter was giving me trouble, but I'm not sure how to improve it. So I'm just posting. Enjoy!
Disclaimer: I do not own HG.
PEETA
They lead me inside the Justice Building for my final goodbyes, but for a moment, I forget the next hour. All I see is light glinting off the chandelier, the deep, rich velvet, polished oak floors, and gilded painting frames. Neither charcoal nor watercolor could capture the beauty. District 12's stores are generally clean, and look better than Seam houses, but are nowhere near this elaborate.
"In here." The rough voice brings me out of my wonder. I'm left waiting for my family's last words to me. I could never capture the room on paper, but I even won't have the time to attempt it. I wonder if my father will go through my sketchbooks. I hope not.
As if summoned through my thoughts, they walk through the door. It slams shut, and my mother steps forward. She has hair the same shade as my own, and ice blue eyes. They've never thawed for me, but I've seen her affection for my father. And on occasion, Rye and Nick.
"Well, don't look at me like that!" She snaps, and I instantly straighten. Impeccable posture, eyes lowered. I hate that she still has this effect on me. Sixteen years old, about to die in the Hunger Games, and I still cower in her gaze.
But my father rushes forward, arms winding around me tightly. I can feel the shuddering breath, and it breaks my resolve. The first tear streaks down.
I feel like a child agin. Wrapped up in his arms. But he's only ever cried in front of me once.
I had been playing outside the bakery, drawing in chalk on the ground. Images of animals we'd been learning about in class. Lion, elephant, monkey. I finished the horse, the best one yet, and ran to show my father–slamming onto a Peacekeeper's leg. I was used to the soft, smiling soldiers from Twelve. So when I slammed into one's legs, I backed up, apologizing, and assumed it'd be brushed off. But he started shouting at me, the strong voice making me shrink, seeming to only infuriate him more. An exchange program we were told later; Peacekeepers from District Eleven. But they looked the same as my Peacekeepers. The ones who complemented my chalk drawings. The one who'd bought a cake, then added a cookie to his charge, handing it to me with a smile. These were not mine. But they looked like it. Same uniform, same equipment at their sides. The baton that I'd never seen used on someone from my home, came down on me. Once. Twice.
He lost interest after that, heading off, not thinking twice about the strength put behind the blow, cracking on a seven year old's frame. My father ran to me as soon as the boots had disappeared from my view. He picked me up and I clung to him, crying, skin aching. But the scariest part was my father's chest shaking with sobs. I'd never seen him cry. Never. That was the first and only time.
Until now, as his sobs are muffled in my shirt.
My brothers join him, and I'm wrapped in all three of their arms.
My mother's harsh voice breaks through the silence. "This is why you're weak. Don't sit there and cry, have some self-respect!" The warmth vanishes, and I'm left with my mother standing in front of me. "Then again, who knows? Maybe District 12 will have a winner this year."
We all look at her in disbelief. There's no way she'd even consider me winning. No way she'd tell me that.
She gives me a cruel smile. "She's a survivor, that one."
Even though I knew this was coming, it still hurts. After all this time, she can still cut me. Those types of wounds ache more than the beatings.
"At least live though one day. Don't embarrass us. Die with some dignity." She opens the doors and walks through them. Not even sparing a glance.
My family is looking at me with pity. They've never stood up for me. Not even my father. While Rye and Nick have been hit, I've always taken the brunt of her anger. That's just how it is.
So when my father walks forward to hug me, I hold him tightly. I know it'll be the last time. "I love you Peet. Maybe you'll come back." But when he pulls away, I can see the truth in his eyes. I'm gone. Only coming back in a box. We both know.
"I love you." I fight to keep my voice steady and he just claps me on the shoulder. I see the tears just before he turns to walk through the doors. It's easier this way.
Rye and Nick sit beside me in silence. It's only when a Peacekeeper gives us the one-minute warning we speak.
"We'll watch you. You won't be alone in the arena." Rye is well-intentioned, but the words offer no comfort. All they do is remind me the entire District will watch my death.
Nick's lips are pressed together, and he stays silent, just nodding at me. This is the way of our family. No signs of weakness. But I've always been the black sheep.
The room starts to blur as they say goodbye for the final time. The tears only fall when the door shuts.
Even after the echo fades, they keep rolling down my cheeks. I know I should stop–it'll show when I'm taken to the train. But at this moment, I can't bother to care. I'm going to be murdered either way. What does it matter if my eyes are red?
KATNISS
I'm ushered back into the square with cameras and flashes and reporters shouting my name. It's a barrage of people and sounds; I feel like I'm trapped by a pack of wild dogs. But fear only makes the dogs bolder, so I slam a mask down on my face. When I look at the giant screen, I appear bored. Above it all. Good.
When Peeta's name joins their shouts, I turn around. He's been crying. It's a stupid move; he's making himself an easy target. It's not like he can pretend to be weak and come out killing. No one would believe that.
Still, he makes no effort to hide his face as we step onto the train.
The train.
All thoughts are banished from my mind. I thought the Justice Building was fancy, but it's nothing compared to this compartment. Fine china, crystal glasses. Velvet tablecloths and bright lighting. Everything looks new, modern, and ridiculously expensive. It makes the Justice Building seem like a ruin.
Peeta's standing with me, eyes searching the train. When it starts to roll, he's knocked off balance and I grab his arm. Hunter's reflex.
"So what now?" He asks, and I drop his arm. He's giving me a small smile, and I can't allow myself to be friendly. I need to push him away. We're already linked, tied together because of the bread, but it's dangerous. There should be no good feelings in the arena.
My voice is cold. "I don't know. Go find Effie. She'll tell you what to do." I pretend not to see the hurt flash of his face. We don't owe each other anything.
But I do. I owe him everything.
The pouring, freezing rain chills me to the bone. I trudge through the mud, but no one wants Prim's baby clothes. Going door to door isn't helpful, and the Hobb intimidates me. But I can't go home with nothing to show. Go back to my starving Prim, telling her I had no food. So I stand there. The bakery's smell taunts me, making me woozy with hunger. I remember the trash cans lining the side of the shop. Maybe they have scraps, some old bread.
I walk over, hunched with hunger pangs, and rifle through the cans. Nothing. Just musty air. I slump over one of them, exhausted. But the baker's wife comes out, shouting about Seam dirt and useless urchins. I turn away, trying to walk to the street, but my legs give out by an old crab apple tree. I know I need to get up. If I don't, I could die right here. It isn't uncommon in District 12. But exhaustion keeps me down.
There's a shout inside the bakery; the woman and her son come out. I've seen him in school. He keeps with the merchant kids. Curly blonde hair, blue eyes. She's yelling at him. He'd burned the bread. She turns around and slams the door, leaving him to toss the burned bread to their pigs. I lift my head. He looks at me, and I see the red mark on his face, already starting to swell. The boy throws a look over his shoulder, then tosses the two loaves toward me. They're fine, except for the bits of burned crust. He goes back inside, and I stare at the bread. Does he mean to give it to me?
I have a burst of energy and grab both of them, shoving the loves under my jacket. They're still hot, almost burning my skin. I couldn't care less.
When I enter our home, Prim immediately reaches for the bread. But I make her sit, waiting for the meal. I boil tea and scrape off the burnt crust, slicing three pieces. One for each of us. It's good, filled with nuts and raisins. We each devour another two servings, but I cut it off when we finish the first loaf. That night I went to bed feeling stuffed. With nothing to eat for so long, those bits of bread feel like a feast.
The next morning, Prim and I both eat another slice and walk to school. It's a warm day; spring has finally decided to come.
When school is let out, I'm waiting for Prim in the yard. I spot the boy across the stretch of grass, grouped with a bunch of friends. His cheek is bruised blue and purple. His eyes catch mine and I drop his gaze, embarrassed.
And spot a dandelion.
The first of the year. And I remember my father's words. That day, Prim and I walk to the meadow and collect all of the weeds. We gorge ourselves on the stems for dinner, eating the last of the bread with it.
And because the boy had tossed me that bread, I was able to survive. To go home and live for another day, to start forging in the forest and eventually hunting. That was a debt I would never be able to pay. It was a life debt.
But it couldn't matter here. I promised Prim I would try to come home. To keep that promise, I'd need to forget that debt. Let it die unpaid. For Prim.
The compartment's empty; I'm alone, lying on the couch. The soft cushions are covered by fabric with swirling stitching. My fingers trace it. The luxury of this train is abhorrent. My family could live off the contents of this carriage alone for a dozen lifetimes. I already feel lazy, resting with nothing to do.
But Peeta enters and the slight sense of peace I had is gone. "Effie told me to come here." He chooses an armchair to sit in; I'm grateful. I don't want to be near him. Only bad things happen when we're close.
A raging bonfire for the Harvest Festival. Empty bottles smelling of alcohol. And Peeta's body, pressed against mine.
My thoughts fly away as Effie enters, followed by Haymitch. He's looking better, more hungover than drunk. It's only been a few hours, but the Capitol probably has something that sobered him up. I'm not sure why he chose to, but I don't really care.
"Hey, Sweetheart." He pushes my legs off the couch and sits down. The other end of the couch looks much more inviting, and I stay as far apart from him as I can. Even if he looks presentable, I don't like him. Don't trust him. Though I guess I'll have to. He's my Mentor, responsible for sending parachutes from sponsors.
Haymitch grabs a remote and a TV slides down. Caesar Flickerman appears on the screen, talking about this year's Hunger Games. The usual drivel. It's so exciting, two weeks of festivities, on and on. He's the host. Has been since before I was born. It's scary how little his face has changed. Capitol surgeons can erase the signs of aging. To them, it's considered ugly. To us, it's impressive; living that long in District 12 is not common. But I guess when everyone lives to that age, it won't mean much.
Caesar wears the same outfit every year: a midnight blue suit with thousands of twinkling, tiny lights. The only thing that changes is the color of his hair and makeup. This year it's a pale blue. I wonder if he'll ever reuse a past color.
The screen goes black and flashes RECORDED at us. Suddenly it's District 1's Reaping, where the two Tributes volunteer. Marvel and Glimmer.
The commentators go through the districts, but only a few tributes stand out. The brute from Two. The calculating, fox-faced girl from Five. A crippled boy from Ten. And Eleven's small girl. She's comically tiny next to the hulking male beside her. She reminds me of Prim. A sweet face, young and innocent.
When we get to District 12, I don't recognize myself. That wild, screaming girl doesn't resemble me. Until I'm on stage, face blank. That's me. The cold, unfeeling persona. But when Peeta's name is called, the mask sheds off my face. They do a side by side of our reactions, both of us staring at the other. Faces shifting with a range of emotions. Fear, dread, regret, I don't even know. But I did a terrible job of hiding it. Anyone could see we have some type of connection. Haymitch pauses it to look at us.
"Look. You're both going to die. If you want me to mentor you, I will. Still won't change the outcome. But first, sort out whatever that is." There's a strange look on his face. "I'm mentoring both of you. That means I got to know what's going on. In the morning, tell me what you've figured out."
He starts to walk out but turns back. "I'm going to get drunk. Effie won't sneak past me a second time, so don't bother me."
The door closes and Peeta turns to Effie. "What's he talking about?"
She stands, looking pleased with herself. "I slipped something into his drink. It helps get rid of the alcohol in one's system. I coerced him into watching the Reaping with you."
I'm almost impressed.
She sighs, "It must be so hard, knowing you'll die. But I knew I could help." There's a sickeningly benevolent smile on her face. "Maybe you'll live past the opening bloodbath!"
And any of the respect she'd gained instantly dies. When she's gone, we sit in silence. Haymitch said to sort it out, but what is there to say? I just unpause the recording.
It goes on to show us shaking hands and entering the Justice Building. More importantly, I see both of us coming out. I achieved my goal. My face is a blank mask and I don't react to any of the reporters. But Peeta is the opposite. His eyes are red, and there's no covering the fact he was weeping. He looks weak.
"What's wrong?" The remote is ripped out of my hands and the TV retracts. I turn, staring blankly. "Why are you looking at me like that?" He's annoyed. Good. So am I.
I need to cut him off. For one, if I associate with him, others may think I'm also an easy target. I know it's unlikely, but I'll need sponsors, and I can't jeopardize that.
But second, more importantly, we're going into the arena. Going to kill. I can't have any good feelings towards Peeta. And I'd be easier if he didn't have any for me.
"You shouldn't have cried," I say harshly.
Immediately, his face morphs from annoyance to a combination of hurt, anger, and defensiveness. "And why is that? We're going to die. Some of us are able to have feelings."
I'm taken aback by the bitter tone. His eyes are always gentle and filled with silent laughter; now they're hard, unbreachable. The kind, caring boy with the bread is gone. It's what I want. It's what I need.
"You look weak." He stiffens, face blank. "I don't know about you, but I plan to try and get out. You're marking yourself as a target. I was as scared as you, but at least I have some discipline!"
"I don't plan to get out! I'm not stupid, I won't survive. Even my mother told me!"
He's lying. "Your mother said you'd die?"
"She said District 12 might finally have a winner. Not me, you!"
I scoff. "No, she didn't"
"'She's a survivor, that one'. She. That's what my own mother told me." He tries to hide the hurt–unsuccessfully. I can't believe Mrs. Mellark would say that. But the truth shines in his eyes. This is the chance to finish it.
I don't want to hurt Peeta; he's too sweet for that. But it's necessary. "By the way you're acting, maybe she was right."
I expect that to snap his self-control, but he just sits there. Looking at me, as if he could read my thoughts.
"Why are you trying to provoke me? We have to play along, at least until the Games. You've never been cruel."
Peeta's smart. And good with words. He could convince someone pigs can fly if there was enough time. But I don't want to be convinced. "We do not have to play along. We're going to kill people. Each other. I don't want to be good with you."
"So you're doing this to push me away."
"We're not even close! How can I push you away if we're already miles from each other? I'm just making it clear." That's a lie. Both of us know it.
"Why can't we be allies in the arena? Why do we have to kill each other? You're making this harder than it needs to be!"
Allies would make sense. But I can't get close to him. If I live, he's going to die, either by my hand or another's. I can't let there be any affection. It'll only hurt once we're in the arena. "I don't need you. Look at the tape!" I stand swiftly. "You'd be no use to me. Whatever we had at home is gone."
He just stares sadly. I want him to be angry. I want him to rage. But his voice is soft. "I don't know why you're so scared of me. But all we have is each other. When you're ready to talk, I'll be here."
He looks defeated, something I've never seen before. Shoulders slumped, eyes dull. I want to apologize. I need someone right now. Even if that someone is Peeta.
I turn around and walk out.
It doesn't matter if I need him. It doesn't matter if he's hurting. All that matters is the arena. All that should matter is the arena.
But even after the door shuts, my mind stays on Peeta.
So... how was it? Honestly, I hate it. But I couldn't figure out why. If there's something you like, don't like, anything you think I should have done differently, please review.
Special thanks to Owlthewriter for the two reviews! You made my day.
Anyways... see ya'll Monday :)