The Hunger Games (Peeta's Point of View)

Chapter Three

I am escorted by Peacekeepers to a room and am left alone. It is extremely plush with thick carpets, patterned wallpaper and lavish velvet furniture. I run my fingers over the material. It’s soft and silky and deep purple, like the cakes I have frosted for our richer customers. I have not encountered velvet before. I decide that when I emerge as victor from the Hunger Games all the seating in my manor will be made of velvet. I have just an hour until we leave for the train station. In that time I will say a farewell to my family and friends.

            The door opens suddenly and my father enters the room. Where is the rest of my family? He looks around, probably surprised at the richness of the room but maybe at the lack of Peacekeepers, Gamemakers, anyone. He holds out a bag, first, before he says anything. I take it from him and set it down on one of the hardwood tables. I smell the fine aroma of bread.

            “Rolls.” He says. I try to smile but emotion threatens to take over me. I can’t let it. Father opens out his arms. I let myself fall into them. The embrace lasts only a few seconds. I look at his scars from burns in the kitchen and realise how much he has hurt himself for his dream. I must be prepared to suffer like that in the Capitol. I think about how hard this must be for him: little Prim, who trades him goat’s cheese for bread, being picked as tribute; then Katniss Everdeen, the fine hunter who provides us with meat, volunteering in her place; then me being picked to kill or be killed. Father’s eyes glisten with tears. “Son... You will win.”

            “Win? How?” This once I let my doubt show. There are no cameras and no Peacekeepers to record this event. Father may even be better at advising me than Haymitch- father can reassure me whereas Haymitch probably can’t.

            “You are strong, son, and smart.”

            “Strong?” I question.

            “You carry basketfuls of goods to the Hob to sell, and carry fifty-kilo flour bags from the Hob for us. That is no mean feat, son.” I can carry bags of flour? Yes, that will help me no end in the arena. They’re really going to put out bags of flour by the Cornucopia. Perhaps they’ll provide ovens and cakes to frost, while they’re at it!

            “Smart?” I question again. I don’t know why I’m doing this; why I’m doubting myself. I have to win, and I’ll do so by any means. Am I making up for the doubt my mother has inflicted on me all these years?

            “You’re smart enough to avoid your mother when she’s in one of her moods!” Father’s response is fast and funny. We laugh for a time. Then mother enters, followed by my brothers, and the mood cools. She approaches me with light steps, and regards the room and me calmly. My oldest brother is clearly more impressed with the room’s décor than her, but the other looks sheepish. My mother clears her throat.

            “Well, boy. You were picked.”

            “Yes.” I won’t let my emotions show again.

            “Will you win?”

            “Yes.” I reply neutrally, hoping it conveys the situation doesn’t bother me. Her gaze flits to the bag of rolls behind me, then back to me again.