Because of all the comments requesting a point-of-view (POV) from Katniss, here's a scene in her eyes, written in first person present tense like the original books. I may do a few of these throughout the story.

Please leave a review and let me know what you think!

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14

I sit on my knees on the floor, inches from the TV screen, watching Prim—my Prim—sprint toward the Cornucopia. "No!" I shriek.

My mother, who retreated to her bedroom at the start of the games, dashes back into the room, not strong enough to keep herself from watching. "Has she…?" She doesn't finish her question. Instead, she collapses into the rocker and stares at the screen, just like when she stared at the wall after Father's death. No. Not this again. Please not this again.

I don't say a word. I don't want to talk to her. It's not her fault that Prim's in the games, but I can't bear to let the guilt and anger and hopelessness just...sit. I have to blame it on something, on someone. Mother's the nearest option.

Prim's blond braid bounces back and forth as she streaks across the grass. She's not as fast as normal. Something's slowing her legs—her nerves, maybe. The tall beefy blond boy from District 2—Cato—runs on her right, gaining. Gaining.

They'll reach the Cornucopia at the same time.

What is she doing? She and I are both fast, but this…did that drunk, Haymitch, tell her to go for it? I clench my fists, forcing myself to watch. The least I can do for Prim is watch her until the end, support her with my heart.

She enters the cornucopia and grabs things left and right with wild desperation. Get out of there. "Get out of there!" I want to shake the stupid console until it jars her head and knocks her into the forest.

She's being so brave.

I hate it. I hate being here, stuck watching.

Cato grabs a sword from one of the cornucopia walls. I'm going to be sick. He stabs a girl running in behind him in the chest, and then slices through a small boy who just entered the cornucopia. The boy looked like he was trying to negotiate being on a team, but Cato didn't even grant him a breath.

Prim hovers over the knives, not noticing Cato. Then some dying tribute screams and she whips around. The camera zooms in on her fear, her wide eyes and innocent face, eating up the drama of the traditional bloodbath. My sister has everyone's attention.

Cato advances and I scream at the screen. "Run! Prim, run!"

He lifts his sword and I know it's going to be over. That metal will slice through my little duck like a knife through goat cheese.

Mother whimpers from her chair.

Then comes Peeta—the boy with the bread. The boy who professed his love for me on TV last night. He'd been heading toward the forest when he saw Prim and then he veered toward the cornucopia, yanking a knife from the spine of a dead boy who lay over an orange backpack. He dashes toward Cato. He wants to save her.

He's going to be too late.

"Throw it, you idiot!" But if his aim isn't true, he'll hit Prim.

Three steps closer and he throws. It hits Cato in the head and then tumbles off into the piles of goods. It didn't stick. Cato's alive—the handle probably hit him.

But now he's distracted.

Peeta grabs Prim's arm—she's paler than a bleached sheet—and yanks her toward the forest. They run, Cato turns to kill another tribute, and suddenly my sister's out of view, off screen, no longer the focus of the Capitol viewers.

She's with Peeta.

And I owe him again. I owed him so much when he threw me that burned loaf of bread that saved our lives. Now he's saved Prim's life, at the risk of his own—supposedly because he cares for me.

I owe him again and I don't mind one bit. If that boy gets my sister back home to me, I'll spend the rest of my life giving free meat to his father and his mother (even if she is a witch.)

Mother's hands pinch my shoulder and I'm torn between shoving her away and clutching her icy fingers for strength. "She's alive," I croak.

"Mhmm." She's trembling and I'm surprised she can even stand. As if reading my thoughts, she stumbles back to the rocker and lowers herself down, her face bloodless.

The front door of our house flies open. I spin around, half expecting to see Peeta and Prim dashing inside for safety. It's Gale, my fiancé. My handsome, dark-haired, hunter fiancé who's never seen me cry. I touch my cheeks, just to make sure I'm not crying without knowing it.

They're dry.

"I heard screaming," he says, panting. "I'm sorry I'm late. I couldn't get away from the Hob in time for the start of the Games." His eyes dart from me to Mother and then to me again. "Is…Prim…?"

"She's alive." I push myself to my feet and step into his arms with more force than is necessary for a hug. I need a fierce hug today. He gives it. He always seems to know when I need to pretend to be strong. "Peeta saved her."

Gale says nothing. He's been weird ever since the interviews played last night. I don't know why, it's not like I'm suddenly going to fall in love with a stranger who's been sentenced to a death competition. But, for some reason, he's jealous.

It's because I mentioned Peeta before last night. I mentioned him on the day of the Reaping. After Prim was taken away, Gale came to see how I was doing and I babbled like an idiot, still recovering from the fact my sister was wrenched from my arms. "He'll protect her, Gale—Peeta Mellark will. He saved our lives once. We were in the same school and he always watched me. He'll protect her. He saved me…I know he'll save her. I know it."

I can't say what made me so certain. But there was something about Peeta's look when he was reaped. He didn't stare at his parents or look at Effie or glance at the cameras. No…

…he looked at me.

Despite the sad droop to his eyes and the quaking of his hands, his gaze held a determined ferocity. And I knew in that moment that he'd do everything he could for Prim. I knew he wouldn't kill her.

And then he had to go and profess his love for me and ruin everything. Sure, it could have been a ploy to protect Prim—to gain the Capitol's sympathy and to help Prim trust him (which was completely unnecessary because Prim trusts everyone way too easily) but I know it's true. I'd noticed him watching me as we grew up. I thought it was because he was waiting for me to say thank you for the bread. My pride wouldn't allow it. But now, on this side of our youth and our tragedy, I see his looks and his attention differently.

I think he really did—does—like me. And, in a way, I'm happy for him because it'll give him meaning in the games. It will give him hope and, if he has hope, then he'll protect Prim.

But it could never change how I feel for Gale.

Never…

Yet, as I watch him rescue Prim and risk his own life, as I hear him shout, "Oh my gosh, Prim, get out of here!" with the same type of desperation that I had in my voice…I half-wish he could come home safely so I can thank him.

Still, to get him and Prim home…that's impossible.

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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?"