Perspectives

His Eldest Brother

The rain pours and I'm drenched to the bone in minutes as I run blindly towards the bakery. My worn boots are completely useless by the sludge that quickly starts to cover our muddy street, and my feet literally seem to turn into ice as I squelch my way home in the early dusk. It is painful, uncomfortable and I'm pretty sure that I am on my way towards developing a nasty cold, but I don't care. I'm happy, dazed, numb and scared. But happy scared. I just kissed Molly Thames, and she kissed me back. She's my girl now...I have a girl. After months of shy glances, stolen smiles and awkward greetings, Molly decided to take matters in her own hands. She just happened to be at her grandmother's house when I was meant to delivery her daily order of bread, and she just happened to smile in that sweet way of hers when I was looking, and finally she just decided to do all the talking that needed to be done for both of us. In response, I was expected to do nothing but nod, smile and oblige her with all the embraces and kisses she wanted from me. I think I can keep on doing that forever.

I'm so lucky that Grandma Thames is blind and senile. And I'm so lucky to have Molly's heart as my own, and the only thing that stops me from whooping out in joy as I splash through the puddles, is that I'm Naan Mellark, fifteen and solemn, and serious and unflappable. With my disposition on show and my reputation in check, I limit my joy to a wide grin and a steady stride, braving the rain until I catch sight of the glow coming from the bakery windows.

My pace, together with my grin, falters however when I hear my mother scream and push my youngest brother Peeta out of the door in the rain, hitting him hard in the face and giving him hell for being useless and worthless while ordering him to throw some bread, which he seems to have presumably burnt, to the pigs. Seriously?? I love my brother and all, but sometimes he seems to just mess up on purpose. At eleven, he's not a child anymore, and he should know better than to burn bread, especailly not so late in the month when the flour supplies are dwindling, and the next supply train is still days away. I see him look around warily before his eyes, together with mine, rest on a huddled, shivering figure slumped against the apple tree just across our backyard. It takes one me just one look at his face to understand. It's Katniss Bloody Everdeen.

The little bastard. He did mess up on purpose.

I see them share one look, his eyes mournful and worried, and hers hungry, worn, desperate and resentful as she looks at the pigs, as if she were jealous that they were being treated with more mercy than she was. I hear her gasp audibily as Peeta quickly looks into the kitchen, and tosses the bread to the wet ground just in front of her. With a burst of energy, she grabs the bread and runs away, almost bumping into me as she clutches the warm bread as if it were her sole source of life. As I look at her skinny frame as she scuttles into the dark streets, I can't help wondering whether that thought is really that far away from the truth. I walk slowly up the front steps to the bakery and lock eyes with Peeta, whose face is pressed against the window pane, silently begging me to keep silent.

Ten minutes later I'm in our bedroom, sitting on his bed and pressing some ice, which I had wrapped in a worn cloth, against his rapidly swelling cheek. He winces slightly, and I realise that I am pressing the ice somewhat more roughly than he deserves, especially given the circumstances and this evening's events. However, I am annoyed at him for ruining my evening plan, namely that of lying in bed thinking of Molly and smiling at nothing. I'm more annoyed at myself though, for being old enough to feel bad about being angry at him for getting beaten up in the first place.

"You idiot," I hiss at him, as I examine his cheek, "you know how she is, you should know better than to rile her up like this!"

"I did nothing wrong," he mutters, as grabs the bag of ice from my hand and proceeds to press it on his cheek. He makes a show at being very gentle about it, and I roll my eyes at him impatiently.