5

Prim lay on her back in her room, imagining herself stabbing someone to death. She almost heaved at the idea. But her mind wouldn't let it go. Every scene from every past Hunger Games flitted across her memory, only this time she was the one killing someone.

She clamped her fists over her eyes. No! She wouln't become a monster like Haymitch said. Even if Peeta ended up killing her after all, she didn't mind. She'd survive as long as she could—to make Katniss happy—and that's all she could do. Katniss would want her to fight, but what skills did Prim have?

Ah yes, something different to focus on. Skills.

Skill 1: She knew how to make cheese. So if they were in an arena full of tame goats, she'd do great. She rolled her eyes. Okay, next.

Skill 2: She knew how to heal wounds. Not as well as Mom, but still…no one else her age could stitch a gash or draw infection from an old injury. She'd be able to keep herself alive if someone ever wounded her. Perhaps that could come in handy—get injured, fake dead, and then heal herself? As crazy as the idea sounded, she wouldn't write it off.

What else? How would she eat? Katniss herself admitted that Prim wasn't a hunter. However, Prim had helped draw pictures in Mother's apothecary book. Father had added other entries to the book—entries of plants used for food. Prim knew most of those. It was one of her favorite memories with Katniss: pouring over the pages late into the night. Learning how to live off the land. Feeling like a grown up.

I bet no one else knows about plants like Katniss and I do!

What were Mom and Katniss doing right then? Was Katniss still crying? Was Gale trying to comfort her? Did Rory—Gale's brother…miss Prim? He was the only boy she ever liked. For now, she'd imagine that he liked her back.

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Sleeping without Mom, Buttercup, or Katniss left Prim dizzy and bleary-eyed in the morning. She cried for a good hour before crawling out of bed. Today they'd arrive at the Capitol. She wasn't ready. She'd never be ready.

Everyone was already assembled in the dining car. Prim slid into her seat, staring at the breakfast of eggs, ham, fried potatoes, rolls, fruit…if only she could somehow share this with Katniss and Mom. Buttercup would love the ham! Had he ever tasted ham before?

"Have some hot chocolate." Peeta slid a mug of steaming, creamy dark liquid toward her. It smelled good. She took a tentative sip. Liquid comfort slid down her throat, calming her stomach and nerves. If anything could make her feel better about the Games, it was hot chocolate.

"So, what are your skills?" Haymitch shoved a moose-sized bite of eggs into his mouth.

The cocoa in Prim's mouth turned to mud. Suddenly the previous night's self-evaluating didn't seem to amount to much.

"I haven't got any skills." Peeta stirred his cocoa, then licked the spoon. "Unless the arena is a bakery."

"Okay, so first we'll work on your confidence level, Muscles. Then I'll ask you about your skills again." Haymitch turned to Prim. "And you?"

"Um…" She forced a swallow. "I can heal wounds and find edible plants." Her voice ended in a squeak. Haymitch rolled his eyes and she turned her gaze back to the cocoa. What did it matter what he thought of her? It was clear they all knew she'd die.

"And you're a fast runner," Peeta piped up. "Probably faster than a lot of us older kids."

"So you'll be a hider." The way Haymitch said this made Prim feel ashamed. A hider. It sounded so...pathetic. Just like what he predicted she'd be.

Prim looked up at Peeta, resisting the urge to give in to Haymitch's ribbing. "How do you know I'm a fast runner?"

"Katniss always bragged on you at school." He wouldn't meet her gaze. "One day there was a race in your class. I could hear her cheering for you all the way across the school yard, so I went to see what the fuss was about. That's when I saw you run. You won the race, yards and yards ahead of the boys. You're good."

Katniss bragged on her. Prim's chest swelled. "I guess I am pretty fast."

She expected Haymitch to roll his eyes again, but he surveyed her. "That could work to your advantage. The cornucopia is usually a bloodbath, but speed could get you in and out before the bloodbath starts."

Her hands shook. The cornucopia! The place where every kid got sliced to ribbons? She couldn't run into that.

Haymitch gestured to her face. "Well there goes that idea. You look like you're gonna puke."

She felt like it, too.

"If you're going to turn into a limp noodle at the very mention of trying to survive, you might as well just step onto a landmine before the countdown."

Prim startled. Now there was an idea! Step off her little platform before the countdown. She'd blow up—it'd be mostly painless—and she wouldn't have to wait for someone else to kill her. Yes…that would work very well.

Thank you, Haymitch. Finally, she had a plan.

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To be continued...

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(New posts every week, sometimes sooner.).

~Feel free to check out my own dystopian book, A Time to Die (by Nadine Brandes), on Amazon~

"How would you live, if you knew the day you'd die?"