Peeta- my version of events

by gingercupcake42

Peeta. We think we know him. We've read him in the Hunger Games. But have you never wondered about his story? What thoughts go through his brain, what is he doing when Katniss is not there? This story gives one idea of how Peeta really thinks, what he really sees.

2. Chapter 2

My mind froze.
I felt like an animal in a cage as thousands upon thousands of heads turned my way and gawked at me. I a specimen, a thing. No longer a person to them. I was now something else, separate to them.
I was now a tribute.
I registered my feet moving. It seemed that after years of watching this happen to others had had an affect on them, like my body knew what to do. Apparently the message hadn't reached my brain as I still could not fully comprehend what was going on. Why was I here? Why was I walking to the front of this crowd of my neighbours and fellow people of District 12? Why was I ascending the stage and showing myself to them? Why was I heading towards Effie Trinket, that woman who disgusts me? And most of all, why was I staring into the features of the girl I was crazy about, shaking her hand and seeing pain in her grey eyes?

Suddenly I was dragged by a bunch of men in white uniforms down the steps to the Justice Building. Justice. Whatever this was, and I still did not completely know, it wasn't justice. Justice is being treated fairly for your actions. I wondered what actions I had ever done that had earned me this. I sat on a plush couch and pondered the situation. I was still confused about what was going on, all I knew was that there was an aura of wrong about it. Something made me distrustful. Small snippets of reality where beginning to sneak their way through this strange haze of bewilderment that had come across me. They were random things. Images of boys and girls I vaguely recognised being called up to the stage, dressed in stupid costumes and rolling around in chariots, going into various arenas, looking pale and determined, being slaughtered.

A cold bead of sweat trickled down my face, slipping down my temple, the corner of my eye, my cheek. It mingled with another bead, not of sweat this time. A tear. I knew exactly why I was here. Finally the things I should have known as soon as I got called out dawned on me. The two liquids mingled on my skin and continued their journey down my features. A perfect mixture of my pain and fear.

And even after I knew, even after I realized I was the male tribute to the 74th annual hunger games and that I was going into an arena with 23 other people, even after I understood that my death was imminent, the question still rang through my head. Why?