okay yall im gonna try to update this fic regularly! REALLY THIS TIME! im concentrating on just this and just one japril MC, so i'm trying to keep myself on track. very excited about where this one will go. word to the wise, it'll probably get dark.

...

As I'm putting my five-year-old sister to bed, I can't remember what I did today. My thoughts are strange and jumbled as she looks at me with an expectant expression.

She wants me to tell her a story. But all I can do is look at her face, the face I just scrubbed with a threadbare, old rag, and listen to my heart thump and hammer in my ears.

She blinks her big, blue eyes and rolls onto her side, then sticks her thumb in her mouth. "I'm hungry, Kitty," she whispers.

For dinner, she had bone broth. My father, mother, and I had nothing. Last night, my father and Prim split the most measly, wrinkled potato I'd ever seen, and my mother and I still went without. Actually, I can't remember the last time I ate.

I skip meals so Prim doesn't have to. And, when chances allow, so my father doesn't have to either. If he were well, he'd provide for us like he used to. But he's not, and he's weak. So he eats after Prim does.

"I know," I say to Prim, stroking her hair. Her stomach growls and, when she hears it, her eyes glaze over with tears.

My stomach is past the point of growling and it has moved onto pain. Deep, sharp pain like it's trying to digest itself. It just might do that, if I don't eat soon.

"When you wake up, we'll have breakfast," I tell her, attempting a smile. My voice comes out breathy and foreign-sounding and, as I speak, a tear slips out of Prim's eye and rolls across the bridge of her nose.

"What will we eat?" she asks.

I can't talk about food. If I start talking about it, the pain will get worse, and if it gets any worse than it is right now, I might faint. Even now, as I rest on my knees at the side of the bed, I'm wavering.

"I'm not sure," I say, trying to direct my mind somewhere, anywhere else.

It doesn't want to go somewhere else, though. It wants to sit at the breakfast table, but not the one we have in our house. It wants to sit at one that's so full with wonderful things that all the plates don't fit. There's dishes of pancakes, scrambled eggs, bacon, oatmeal, sausage, grits, and cornbread. Some of these are things I've never had in my life - not once - but I've heard about them, and hearing about them is enough to conjure a daydream that makes my mouth water.

"Go to sleep," I say, then pat Prim's head and stand up.

I have to run my hand along the wall as I leave the room and blink hard, because now I'm seeing double. My legs are so weak that I'm not sure how they're keeping me upright, and I still can't think straight.

I stand in the bathroom and clean my teeth, forcing myself to stay vertical. I take my routine one second at a time. As soon as I spit the baking soda out of my mouth, I can rinse it out. After I rinse it, I can wash my face. Then I can dry it. Then I can get into bed with Prim and maybe, when we wake up, there will be a big, fat turkey on our front step. Or, maybe, we'll be dead.

One is much more likely than the other.

Slowly, I hobble back to the room we share. My sister is sleeping, just like I told her to do, and I try to do the same when I lay down beside her - but it doesn't come easy.

In fact, it doesn't come at all.

I stare at the wooden planks on the ceiling, barely able to breathe. I'm convinced that my stomach is turning inside out, trying to make food out of anything it can find inside my body. My bones, my blood, the breath in my lungs.

I can't make it much longer like this. In fact, I'm not sure I can make it through the night. I'm in so much pain and my head is so foggy that I sit up, legs hanging over, and know I have to do something about this.

I have to go to The Row.

I promised myself that I never would. Not for my own pride, but my sister's. When girls go to The Row and do favors for Peacekeepers for money, it doesn't stay a secret. My family has been shamed enough as it is. The last thing we need added to our rap sheet is a whore.

But if I don't leave the house now, if I wait another day, I won't have enough strength to make it there. And, seeing as it's our last option until spring comes, I don't have much of a choice.

With ragged breaths, I take off my nightgown and change into my nicest dress, which isn't very nice at all. The hem of the skirt is uneven and there's a hole in the side, but I don't think whatever Peacekeeper is lucky enough to get me will be looking at the state of my clothes. If I'm to believe the stories I've heard, he'll probably ruin them anyway when he tears them off me. I might have to go home naked, but at least I'll have money for food.

This is the mindset I've found myself in. Even just a week ago, I wouldn't have gone here. I wouldn't have let it happen. But a lot can go wrong when you're hungry - and a lot does.

With shaking hands, I lace up my boots and weave my hair into a braid. I catch a glance of myself in the dirty, cracked mirror that rests against the far wall and see that my dress, that once fit me just right, hangs in all the wrong places. It looks awful.

I don't care. The Peacekeeper won't care, either.

I have to leave. I open and shut the bedroom door quietly and plan to head out of the house undetected, but my mother is sitting at the kitchen table, illuminated by the flickering light of one small candle.

We lock eyes and I know she knows where I'm going. I almost wish she would stop me, tell me not to go back on my own promise, that we can figure out something - anything - else. But she doesn't speak. She watches me the whole way to the door, and I feel her eyes on my back even after I leave.

…

My footsteps are loud and ungraceful as I make my way through the small patch of woods that sits between the Seam and The Row. It's probably a good thing - I don't need any big cats making easy prey of me - but I also wonder if a quick death like that might make things simpler.

I force that thought from my mind, though it had been more pleasant than the ones that came before it. Before I started pondering big cats, I was thinking about the fact that I'll probably be able to get more than what's usually offered to girls who frequent The Row. I'm a virgin. They don't see girls like me often, which means they'll pay a high price for my first time.

The thought alone makes me want to vomit. I've never spent much time thinking about sex, but I'm not stupid. I know it's supposed to be enjoyable, and it should be with someone you love - or, at least, care about. It shouldn't be an act of desperation.

But that's what life is like in District 12. When one bad thing happens, they all do. It started with Daddy getting sick, then the house falling into disrepair, then Mom barely speaking, then Prim and I going hungry. It wasn't just a snowball, it was an avalanche, and we're beyond buried now. Now, I'm about to have sex for the first time and get paid for it just so me and my family don't starve to death. And my mother just let me walk out the door, knowing exactly what I was headed to do, because she knows just as well as I do that it's the only option we have left.

I'm at the treeline when I see the front door of one of the Peacekeeper cabins burst open and a woman - a girl, really - stumble out looking worse for wear. Her dress is mostly unbuttoned, baring her braless, sunken chest, and her hair is disheveled. She's got dark bruises on her face that I can see from here, and she's missing a shoe.

Cray, the most notorious Peacekeeper on The Row, stands in the doorway laughing. When she comes to rest on the middle step, he plants a foot in the middle of her spine and kicks her the rest of the way down - and her falling only makes him laugh louder.

She lands on her hands and knees and the coins she'd been holding scatter everywhere. From here, I count five. I hope, for her sake, that she gathers all of them.

He shouts something crude and she disappears into the night, around the back of his house. He spits on the ground where she'd just been, then lifts his head at just the right angle - and we lock eyes.

I'm not too far away from the cabins. Maybe fifty yards. Close enough to see the smirk grow on Cray's lips and the way he crassly tugs at the lump in the front of his pants.

I sway where I stand and have to reach out and grab the thin trunk of a birch tree to steady myself. Still, he hasn't taken his eyes off of me, and it's clear what cabin I'm being beckoned into - Cray's. Cray, who's known for being the roughest, the rudest, and most violent.

I don't want this, but I need money. I can't move, but I need food.

"Hey, bitch," Cray shouts, his voice carrying through the frigid night air. "Are you gonna come inside and suck me off, or am I gonna shoot you for being out past curfew?"

All I can do is stare. I'm not even sure if I'm breathing. What jolts me out of the trance I'd fallen into is the door of another Peacekeeper cabin coming open - the hollow sound breaks the silence and spurs me into action.

Like a spooked horse, I turn on my heel and sprint back in the direction I came from. I run like I haven't run for ages, until my lungs are torn to shreds and my throat is ragged and sore. I run until I reach the front porch of our shack in the Seam, then I throw myself down onto it, face-first.

After all that running, I can't stand up. My energy is completely wasted. So, I crawl through the front door, past the empty table, and curl into a ball in front of the barely-glowing embers in the hearth.

I keep my eyes on them all night and I don't sleep.

I should have done it. I had a chance to pull us up and out from where we've fallen - even by just a little - and I ran away like a coward.

As I lie there, feeling the ache of my bones against the hard floor, I make myself a promise.

I'll make the trip again tomorrow night. But, tomorrow, I won't wait at the treeline. I'll walk right up to the cabin door and offer my virginity for fair compensation. Then, I'll use that money to buy us something at the market that will last. Tomorrow.

Tomorrow.

…

The next day, after Prim goes to school and my mother has made herself scarce, I sit quietly next to my father's bed. They don't know what made him sick, but it started almost a year ago and he gets weaker every day. He barely moves and, sometimes, the pain in his body is so much that he can barely take it. He's asked my mother more than once to put him out of his misery, but she refuses.

If I were him, I'd ask her the same thing. With me, though, she'd probably oblige. Not because she'd want mercy for me, but because she could bear to see me go. Him, though, she can't live without.

He's asleep most of the time, just as he is now. But I sit with him anyway, elbows on my knees and face in my hands, as I try not to think about how hungry I am. That's all I think about these days. How am I supposed to think about anything else when my body is screaming at me to eat something, anything? I might start gnawing on the rotted wood of the walls soon.

I might try that if I didn't have a plan for tonight. Tonight, I'll go do what I have to and I'll come back with a reward to show for it. We'll eat well tomorrow. We'll see another morning.

"Katniss," Daddy says, surprising me.

I lift my head and look at him. I wipe my eyes and try to pretend that I wasn't crying, but he's not looking at me anyway. His breaths are shallow and, most of the time, it takes too much energy to open his eyes. So, he keeps them closed while he talks - and he doesn't talk often.

"I'm here," I say.

"What are you plannin' on eating tonight?" he asks.

I furrow my eyebrows and look at him with a deep frown. If I knew what we were eating tonight, I wouldn't have any of the problems that are currently toiling in my mind. How can he ask a question like that so flippantly? It's like he doesn't know where he is, or who we are.

"I don't know," I grumble.

"I figured," he says. "We out of those potatoes?"

"They were making Prim sick," I say. "And yes."

He clears his throat and ends up falling into a bout of hacking coughs. Such coughing fits sap the energy from him so, when it's over, he lies there caved into himself and looks even smaller than before.

"Go to the woods," he says. "There'll be something."

I frown again, watching him with confusion. I've never gone to the woods without him, and the last time he took me I was probably 14 years old. In the spring, I'll be 18. It's been a long while.

We'd go when we didn't have worries like we have now. Long before he got sick and when Mom's apothecary business was still up and running. Prim was a happy, bouncy infant - skinnier than merchant babies, but joyful all the same. Life was simpler. Better.

I wouldn't know what I was doing there. I barely remember what it was like to watch him hunt. I know he used a bow and arrow, and he promised to teach me one day - but he never got around to it. After a while, the mines started taking all of his time, and I was still in school then.

I want to refute him and ask how in the world I'm supposed to find whatever's in the woods and know how to turn it into something we can eat if he's not there to show me. I don't, though. I don't have the energy, and arguing's not worth it.

"I don't want you going to…" He takes a long, ragged breath, and his chest shakes as he exhales. "Going to The Row."

Yet again, I don't speak. That's why he wants me to try the woods; my mother must have told him that I headed out last night. But as soon as I put that together, hot rage boils in my gut - mixed with the hunger, it's acidic. Who is she to shame me for doing what I have to do to feed us? I don't see her trying. She hasn't offered up any ideas.

But I might as well just agree. Fighting is no use, and it's not like life could get any worse than it is right now.

…

I layer up my clothes and make sure there's plenty of time before I have to pick Prim up from school. There is, so I grab a bag and head to the woods - not the small patch of woods that leads to The Row, but the other one beyond the fence. Luckily, the fence isn't live and it hasn't been for as long as I can remember. I slip through it easily, though I do wobble on my feet once I stand up straight again.

I do my best to hurry through a field before I reach the treeline, wading through a patch of cattails as I go. I stop and stare at them, noticing how enticing the dark red color is, and don't try to resist when my instincts tell me to lean in and take a bite.

I do it, but the texture catches me off guard - and not in a good way. I end up with a mouth full of fuzzy particles that don't go down easily, but I don't spit them out. I notice that it doesn't taste too bad - a little bitter, but edible, and I eat the whole thing. It's more than I've had in days. It has to be good enough.

I eat three more and shove as many as I can fit into the bag that I brought. It's almost silly - what human can live off cattails? - but I'm not sure I'll find anything better.

Trekking further into the woods, I see and hear birds far above my head making a racket in the trees. I recognize their songs from when my father used to tell me about them, but their names evade me. Even after the cattails, I'm still too hungry to focus on one thought for very long.

I stand in the middle of a group of trees, waiting for something to run across my path. A rabbit or a squirrel or something of the like, anything with meat on its bones. But nothing does. I'm not sure how long I stand there for, motionless, but the woods have gone dead. I've scared everything away with my cattail-eating and presence alone. I don't know what my father expected me to do with no weapon and no trapping skills. This was pointless, and the more I think about the energy I wasted coming out here, the angrier I get.

As I'm crouched in place, fuming, a chipmunk peeks out of a small hole in the ground. I go completely still as I stare at it, willing it to come a little closer so I can pounce on it like some sort of overgrown cat. I barely breathe as its head darts to one side, then the other, then it quickly darts out of its little den and scampers across the blanket of leaves in front of me.

With nothing else at my disposal but my hands, I lunge forward and try to trap it. Whatever my plan might have been, it fails, and all that happens is that I end up landing hard on my chest as the stupid thing runs away at top speed.

I curse under my breath and clamber to my feet. Coming here was a mistake, and now I feel like an idiot on top of everything. I can't even catch a chipmunk.

I have to force myself not to care about what my father says, or what he thinks. Tonight, there's no way around it. I'm going back to The Row.

…

After everyone is in bed that night, I fill the basin up with tepid water - the best I can manage - and scrub my body down. I don't remember the last time I did this, as we tend to use our water conservatively, but Cray won't pay me as handsomely if I'm dirty or come with a certain 'Seam smell.' I use a rag and rub my skin raw, until it's red and stinging, and I even wash my hair.

I almost regret doing it as soon as I dry off, though, because my knees feel especially weak. The cattails have faded from my system and, after serving my family a measly dinner of them, they're gone. I have no other reserves to grab energy from, and it shows as it takes me almost five whole minutes to tie the ribbon around my waist, the ribbon on the same dress I wore last night.

When I finally get it, I spend just as long tying my boots. I try to take deep breaths, to bring my mind back to where it's supposed to be, but it's intent on wandering. My head feels empty. I can't put a coherent thought together, and I have no clue how I'm going to speak aloud to this man who scares me so badly.

I suppose I'll figure it out once I get there. At least, that's what I tell myself as I walk silently out the front door.

…

Walking through the woods takes a long time tonight. My pace is slow, and I can't tear my eyes off the sky. The stars are sparkling and catching my attention like they never have before; they're breathtaking with the way they twinkle and sparkle, appearing and disappearing from view. I can't help but smile at them. I wish they could see me. I wish that something up there could swoop down and take me away from this awful life.

I shake my head as soon as that sentiment passes through it. I never think about things in that way. I have my feet planted firmly on the ground, and such wishes are childish, stupid, and a waste of time.

My stomach groans and rips a hole through the silence of the woods, reminding me why my mind has wandered in the way it has. I keep walking.

I trip over exposed roots and fallen branches, almost falling to my knees a couple times. But I never hit the ground - I make sure to stay upright, because, if I fall, I don't think I'll be able to get back up. I might just die out here, with an empty stomach, on my way to get paid for sex.

So, I keep walking. I don't pause at the treeline like I did last night - I don't give myself the chance to back out. Instead, I walk right up to the cabin door and bang on it three times in succession.

I hear footsteps from inside. Loud, heavy footfalls that make their way slowly - almost curiously - towards me. As I wait, my knees shake so badly that they knock against each other and I have to clench my jaw to keep my teeth from chattering.

As the doorknob turns, I brace myself to see Cray's pockmarked, ruddy face. As the door comes open, I instinctively flinch away from the body that appears and close my eyes, waiting to hear some degrading remark or to get pulled inside.

Neither of those things happen, though, so I open my eyes. When I do, I'm not looking at Cray at all. I'm looking at someone who I don't recognize, someone who I've never seen before. He's young with a clear, open face, deep blue eyes, and curly blonde hair. Prim's shade, or even lighter. His lips are plush and pink, and he's got a freckle right above the bow of the upper one.

I notice all this in a split second, because when the moment cracks, it cracks hard. Seeing someone I hadn't expected startles me so badly that I step backwards off the porch, trip over my own feet, and land on my rear end in the scrubby dirt.

With my hands braced behind me, I look at this young Peacekeeper and wait to be reprimanded. He is not Cray. I knocked on the wrong cabin. I wasn't thinking straight. I'm still not thinking straight because I haven't moved - why am I not running?

As soon as the thought crosses my mind, I scramble to my feet and back up, keeping my gaze on the blonde Peacekeeper to make sure he doesn't advance towards me. He stays rooted in place for a moment, but takes a step forward as soon as I take one back.

"Wait," he says. His voice is very quiet. He glances over his shoulder, towards Cray's actual cabin, then back at me. "Please, wait."

My body is yelling at me to run, to get out of there, and it's too loud to ignore. I don't know why he's telling me to wait, but I can't risk finding out. Without a word, I flip around and careen towards the treeline as fast as I can - which, admittedly, is probably not very fast with how little fuel I've got.

After I'm hidden by the woods, I trip over myself again and land hard on my side. I take a moment to catch my breath, first making sure that I'm not being chased, then scramble to crouch behind a fallen tree.

The blonde Peacekeeper's cabin door is still ajar, but he's no longer standing in the opening. The yellow light from inside floods onto what some might call a yard, but is really more like a patch of earth, as his shadow moves around inside. As the minutes pass, I do not take my eyes off that shadow.

I'm still watching closely as he slips out of the front door again. Just as carefully as before, he checks over his shoulder towards Cray's cabin. Once he sees it's clear, he creeps down the front steps and, at first, I think he's headed towards where I'm positioned in the woods - so I duck lower. But he's not.

Instead, he lifts a log and places something underneath it. I can't see what it is, but it's definitely something. And, as if he's trying to send me a message, he slowly and carefully scans the dark treeline - I can see the moonlight reflecting off his eyes. I doubt he can see me, though. Not only is it dark, but I'm much too good at hiding to be spotted by someone who doesn't know how to look.

He doesn't observe the treeline for long. After a beat, he heads back into his house and, just a moment after that, the yellow light shuts off and his little cabin is cloaked in darkness just like the rest of The Row.

I stay in my hiding spot, bunched into myself, for a long time. I'm not sure how much time passes, but it's long enough for my knees to ache and my fingers to grow sore with how roughly I'm holding the tree trunk lying in front of me.

I should go home. I don't need to see what he left under the log, though it's clearly something meant for me. It has to be. There is no other logical reason as to why he would place something there, then scan the treeline like he did. I know it's for me. But is it smart to take it?

What message will that send him, if I do? Undoubtedly, I'll owe him something. Sex, maybe. But I was planning on giving that up, anyway. I can't be sure of his temperament, but at least he's younger than Cray. Maybe owing him that isn't quite as horrible as owing it to Cray.

It's not like I have anything else to give.

And I am so hungry.

Unable to resist, my cramping stomach forces me out from behind the tree. I'm too weak to get to my feet, so I crawl to the log and gently roll it away once I reach it.

In the low light, I see that I was right. He did leave something - actually, more than one thing. He left about ten strips of jerky and a handful of gold coins.

My mouth pools with saliva upon seeing the jerky. I can't remember the last time any of us at home had this. I glance at his cabin, wondering, fleetingly, if I'm being tricked. It would be just like a Peacekeeper to set me up like this, with a trap, like an animal.

But there's no movement from inside. Still, though, I have to act fast - now, or not at all.

In one quick swipe, I gather the jerky strips and slip them into the front pocket of my dress. I leave the gold coins, though, sitting in the damp soil under the log.

…

The next day is Saturday, and everyone in my house is smiling - including me. I haven't had energy like this in months; the sensation of jerky sitting in my stomach is good enough to suggest a trip to the market with Prim.

We haven't been to the market together, just to browse, for a very long time. It's one of her favorite things to do, and her face lights up when I ask if she's interested.

"Let's go, let's go!" she says, leaping up from the table and bouncing in place. "I'll put on my yellow dress."

"And your boots," I say. "And your coat."

"You layer up, too," our mother says, and I give her a curt nod.

Prim's coat once belonged to me, but it was mine when I was ten. It's too big for her, so I tie a rope around the middle to keep it from sagging too badly.

"Can I have pretty braids?" she asks, sitting obediently on the floor in front of me - she knows I'll say yes.

As I separate her hair into two even sections, she leans against the inside of my knee. I cherish the rise and fall of her slight shoulders as she breathes, then she hugs my leg as if she's feeling the same warm sentiment that I am.

I pet the part in her hair once I'm finished, then she turns and tips her sweet face up to look at me. "I love you," she says, then crawls into my lap.

I hold her close, one hand on the back of her head, and take a deep breath. I gave her a bath this morning. She smells clean and warm. She's happy. I'm happy. Our life has turned around so drastically in just a few hours.

"I love you, too," I say, rocking her slightly. "I'm going to get dressed now. I'll be quick."

I wash my face, braid my own hair, and put on the cleanest pair of pants I can find. My own coat isn't much to shake a stick at, but I put it on and do up the buttons as Prim watches from the bench near the door, grinning.

I grin back because I can't help it. Her joy is contagious, and it always has been. I'd do anything to see her smile.

"Ready?" I ask, extending my hand.

She nods enthusiastically and bids our parents goodbye. I hold her hand all the way to the square, then keep her close once we get there - though she badly wants to explore, I don't let her. There are too many people here today, and she can look just as well from beside me as she can from a few feet away.

"Look at this, Kitty," she says, stopping at a fabric stand. She's marveling over a roll of shiny, pink satin - something only merchant girls can afford to wear. "I want that."

"I bet you do," I say kindly, stroking her knuckles.

"Can I get it?" she asks, peering at me with questioning eyes.

She knows what I'll say. The answer is obvious. But, being five, she still has to ask.

"Not today," I tell her.

"I'll mark it down for ya," the seller says, catching onto Prim's desire.

Prim gazes at me again, this time more hopeful. But still, I shake my head. "We can't," I say, both to her and the seller.

Prim's eyes well up with tears and, just as she's about to start sniffling, someone brushes past just close enough for me to notice. I shrink closer to my sister, surrounding her body with mine, and snap my head around to see who it was - and that's when I see a flash of blonde, curly hair.

He turns his head and locks eyes with me for a split second, but only that. In the next beat, I'm looking at his back, and he's moving through the crowd again. I watch him until he disappears.

"Look!" Prim says, crouching in the dirt. "He dropped these."

I glance down to see that she's got a group of gold coins between her little fingers, rubbing them together to make a metallic, scratchy sound.

"Leave them," I say sternly, then take her arm and pull her back up to her feet.

She frowns, indignant, and doesn't let go of the coins. Sometimes, she's too much like me. She gets stubborn and doesn't listen. It frustrates me to no end. "But they're his coins," she says.

"Leave them, Prim," I say again, jaw clenched.

"Can we have them, then?" she asks, closing her hand around her spoils - her spoils that don't belong to her. "For the satin?"

"No," I say. "Put them down."

"No," she says, mimicking my tone. Her light eyebrows lower and she pulls her arm out of my grip, taking a couple steps away.

"Primrose," I say, warning her.

She's got her own idea, though. Without casting me a second thought, she turns and lifts her high voice above the din to shout, "You dropped your coins!"

Before I can pull her back, she weaves through the crowd with a closed fist raised high above her head. I catch up and grab her wrist, but she yanks it out of my grip with a quick twist. Then, without fear, she stops right behind the blonde Peacekeeper and taps him on the arm.

"Mr. Peacekeeper, excuse me," she says. "You dropped your coins."