Star Crossed Killers

1: The Morning Of

When I wake up, the other side of the bed is cold. My fingers stretch out, seeking Prim's warmth but finding only the rough canvas cover of the mattress. She must have had bad dreams and climbed in with our mother. Of course, she did. This is the day of the reaping.

I prop myself up on one elbow. There's enough light in the bedroom to see them. My little sister, Prim, curled up on her side, cocooned in my mother's body, their cheeks pressed together. Prim's face is as fresh as a raindrop, as lovely as the primrose for which she was named.

Sitting at Prim's knees, guarding her, is the world's ugliest cat. Mashed-in nose, half of one ear missing, eyes the color of rotting squash. Prim named him Buttercup, insisting that his muddy yellow coat matched the bright flower. He hates me. Or at least distrusts me. Even though it was years ago, I think he still remembers how I tried to drown him in a bucket when Prim brought him home. Scrawny kitten, belly swollen with worms, crawling with fleas. The last thing I needed was another mouth to feed. But Prim begged so hard, cried even, I had to let him stay. It turned out okay. My mother got rid of the vermin and he's a born mouser. Even catches the occasional rat. Sometimes, when I clean a kill, I feed Buttercup the entrails. He has stopped hissing at me. And if he doesn't like me, at least he likes the others.

I swing my legs off the bed and slide into my hunting boots. Supple leather that has molded to my feet. I pull on trousers, a shirt, tuck my long dark braid up into a cap, and grab my forage bag. On the table, under a wooden bowl to protect it from hungry rats and cats alike, sits a perfect little goat cheese wrapped in basil leaves. Prim's gift to me on reaping day. I put the cheese carefully in my pocket as I slip outside, a small smile tugging on my face.

Our part of District 12, nicknamed the Seam, is dead at this hour, and on this day. A ghost town. People tell stories of spirits wandering the Seam on Reaping Day, singing songs of their deaths, deaths caused by the games. I shudder as I jog along the coal smudged road.

Our house lies at the edge of the Seam. I only have to pass a few gates to reach the beautiful field called the Meadow, sprawling with summer wildflowers this time of year. Separating the Meadow from the woods, in fact enclosing all of District 12, is a high chain-link fence topped with barbed-wire loops. Everyone knows that while it's supposed to be constantly running with electricity, it almost never is. They tell us there are rabid animals in the woods, which is much better at keeping people out than the rusty old things standing before me. In fact, only three of us venture out year round, although a few people brave the edges of the woods in the fall to gather apples.

"District Twelve, where you can starve to death in safety," I whisper to myself with a smirk as I crawl under the fence through a little hollow and pop back up on illegal land.

I quietly jog past the tree cover to the hollow oak where we store our bows and supplies for snares. As I grab mine from the tree, I feel strong arms grab me from behind. Warm breath on the back of my neck.

"Peeta!" I hiss as I squirm out of his grasp, "Don't do that. I might have shot you."

"Ah," Peeta flashes his trade mark boyish grin my way, his blue eyes sprarkling in the early morning light like dewdrops on the petals of a wildflower, "but you didn't."

"Next time I will," I grumble, but Peeta doesn't take my threat seriously, just laughing as he throws his arm around me.

"What's the plan for today?" he asks as we hike to our meeting spot, a rock ledge that overlooks the valley. Gale and I found it a few years back, and I decided it was worthy of becoming our official meeting spot since the ledge is covered in blackberry brambles.

"I don't know. Maybe a bit of fishing?" I reply  lightly. There is a stream down in the valley that doesn't take too long to hike to.

"Planning a fancy dinner for tonight?" Peeta grins down at me, taking my hand in his. I feel my cheeks heat a little before fixing a scowl on my face. Tonight. After the reaping, everyone in the district is supposed to celebrate. And a lot of people do, out of relief that their children have been spared for another year. But at least two families will pull their shutters, lock their doors, and try to figure out how they will survive the painful weeks to come.