SEASON OF THE BONE, katniss everdeen

one

chapter one.
'A MENTOR'

       Moss was a disaster. He had been born one, according to his Grandmother. Rattled the whole circle of huts with his first cry, and he'd never backed down since, even when he should of had enough sense to. Those who shared his blood weren't the only to think so. His eyes had rolled when he'd overheard Seeder tell Chaff that he was one red hot warning just waiting to explode.

She was right. His thoughts roamed free, unable to keep his mouth shut. Insult after insult. An attitude problem, Seeder hadn't been impressed until she realised what type of anger stemmed from his issues — until his anger, his lack of care and understanding for the rules and the requirements they tried to enforce on him, won him the Seventy-Third Hunger Games.

He had settled since, he had no choice to but he couldn't say it was truly enough for President Snow — no, after all, how could it be? He had insulted that man upon the congratiatons for his own win.

It was because there was food on the table. Granted, it was in a house that was not home, but his brother had never looked the way he had when they stepped into it. Never had he — his younger kid brother — been so overjoyed at having warmth, and a bed with a sheet that didn't have holes across the protector.

Because they'd never had that before.

Never had a truly warm house during the cold. His Father had worked all his life, being joined by Moss when he was old enough, and it had never been enough to settle their growling bellies.

The food they'd get — during desperate times, measures that many paid the price for one way or another — came with said price.

He'd been seventeen. Only a year previous, when he paid the price. His Father often grew angry, always shouting and pointing and shoving at his son whenever he saw that small portion of food that Moss had brought in.

Doing little acts like that meant his name went on one more slip. Then another. And another. Until there was enough, though it was always the matter of odds in the end, for a genuine worry that his name would be pulled from that horrid, see through bowl.

One day, it had. Loud and clear, his name had been called. Had echoed across the silence. Stilled the bodies of those who knew him — his Father, his younger kid brother, his friends he'd grown with and those who had known his older sister. His dead sister.

Again, some cried. Not his Father though. Poor man. Losing another child.

His Father had no more tears to waste after their daughter's body had been flown back out to them, no evidence of what Finnick Odair had done to her upon first glance. And that realisation, a slap to the face, had caused Moss to become bitter.

His Father. His old man. The very one who wasn't all too moved by the sending of a second child into the Games that had taken the first permanently.

Not even a tear. Not even a hug upon their goodbye.

His brother had sobbed and clung to him, begged for Moss to lift him and run away — Moss was known for his quick legs, one of the reasons he had won. He could outrun a beat.  His Father only blinked.

"You'll die," His Father had said one thing to him. One thing only.

And coldly back, Moss had replied. "My only regret is leaving my brother with you."

But no regrets came to life. Because he didn't die. He lived. He won. But no win came with peace. He was still there, trapped and frightened and running, always looking back, always holding his hand out. Clawing at the hold the Capitol had around his neck.