The Boy with the Bread: Peeta Mellark's Story

Prologue

  There she is again. Katniss Everdeen. She sits, shivering with cold, in the icy rain, threadbare baby clothes in a mud puddle in front of her. She must have been trying to sell them. Her dark braid is wet, dark brown strands clinging to her worn leather jacket. I can see her beautiful eyes, empty, tired. Her lips are cracked and blue, her frame shaking. She looks all alone sitting in the mud and rain, leaning against a tree.

I stand in the bakery door, feeling the warmth of the oven radiating through my white apron and seeping into my bones. It's so comfortable in here. And yet a shiver runs down my spine as I see her sitting there, so thin and cold and hopeless. My mother has just yelled at her for scavenging in our trash. There wasn't anything there anyway- the bins had just been emptied.

"Stop standing there and come help me!" My mother's harsh voice jolts me back to the present. She hands me a large pan, with two big loaves resting on it- filled to the brim with raisins and nuts. "Wrap them up- make sure it's the brown paper, not the white."

I look down at the loaves. They were soft and mellow brown, still warm in my hands. I shoot a glance back out the window at Katniss, then at my mother. Her back is turned to me as she swiftly kneads dough. Is it worth it? In one quick move, I slide the loaves into the fire and drop the pan, sending it clattering on the floor. The loaves start to char, and I grab the poker resting on the mantel and scoop them up out of the flames. They're burnt black on the outside.

My mother turns, her face furious. "What have you done?" she yells. She grabs her rolling pin and smacks me on the cheek with it. My cheek stings from the blow. She shoves me out the door, still yelling. I trip and stumble off the porch into the wet mud. It sloshes onto my pants, staining them brown. "Feed it to the pigs, you stupid creature! Why not? No one decent will buy burned bread!"

I turn to the pig pen and begin to tear off chunks and toss them into the trough- waiting for her to leave. My eyes stay fixed on the muddy ground as the icy rain pelts my shoulders, but I can feel Katniss' eyes on me. She's only ten feet away and I'm terrified to approach her. I hear the bell over the front door ring as a customer arrives, and my mother stomps off the porch. I risk a glance back to make sure she's gone, then toss the bread into the mud near Katniss, my eyes fixed on the pig pen. Without waiting, I slosh back into the bakery, closing the door behind me and stomping the mud onto the wood floor. I wait a few seconds, too scared to risk a glance back out the window. Would she take the bread? Would she know how much I wanted to get to know her? I finally turn to the window, but it's too late. She's gone- vanished like a ghost into the pouring rain. The only sign that she was there are the baby clothes, still laying in the puddle. The bread is gone, and two loaf-shaped indents in the mud are starting to fill up with water.

I had the chance to talk to her. I had the chance to help her into the warmth of the kitchen. But all I did was throw burned bread in the mud near her, without even a word to her. I am a coward.

-By Prim Everdeen-