The Hunger Games Through Peeta's Eyes

Chapter three P.P.O.V.

As soon as we reach the square, we split up. My father, mother, and nineteen year old brother, Gordian, to the roped off side area for adults, my eighteen year old brother, Claudius, to the back with the other eighteen year olds, and I join the other sixteen year olds. I scan the crowd. There she is. Katniss looks beautiful in her blue dress and shoes. I never see her in a dress. Only on reaping day, and sometimes not even then. I admire her for a few more minutes and then take notice of the stage. There are three chairs, two are occupied. The first contains Mayor Undersee of District twelve. The second contains Effie Trinket, District twelve’s escort to the games. She looks excited, but everyone knows that she hopes to get a better district next year. Coal miners aren’t very exciting I guess. The third’s empty. They look at it with concern for a few minutes, and then decide to start without them. As soon as the clock strikes two, District twelve’s mayor steps up to the podium and begins to read. It’s the same story every year. He tells the history of Panem, a country that rose out of the ashes of a place once called North America. He lists the droughts, storms, fires, the floods that swallowed up most of the land, and the brutal war that left us what little sustenance remained. The result was Panem, a shining Capitol ringed by thirteen districts, which brought peace and prosperity to its citizens. Then came the Dark Days, the uprising of the Districts against the Capitol. Twelve were defeated, the thirteenth obliterated. The Treaty of Treason gave us the new laws to guarantee peace and, as our yearly reminder that the Dark Days must never be repeated, it gave us the Hunger Games. The rules are simple. As punishment for the uprising, each of the twelve districts must provide one girl and one boy, called tributes, to participate. The twenty four tributes will be imprisoned in a vast outdoor arena that could hold anything from a scorching desert to a frozen wasteland. Over a period of a few weeks, the tributes must fight to the death. The last one standing wins. Taking these kids from our districts and making them fight one another while we watch; this is the Capitols way of showing us how totally at their mercy we are. How little of a chance we have at surviving another rebellion. Whatever words they say, the message is clear. “Look how we take your children and sacrifice them and there’s nothing you can do. If you lift a finger, we will destroy every last one of you, just like we did in District thirteen.” To make it humiliating as well as torturous, the Capitol requires us to treat the Hunger Games like a festivity, a sporting event pitting every district against the others. The winning tribute gets a life of ease back home and their district will be showered with prizes, largely consisting of food. All year, the Capitol will show the winning district gifts of grain and oil and even delicacies like sugar while the rest of the districts battle starvation. I don’t battle it, but I do only get some of the stale bread that has been left out for days until one else would buy it. But since the rest of the district is starving, I’m not complaining. “It is both a time of repentance and a time for thanks,” intones the mayor. He then reads the names of past victors from our district. In all seventy four years, we have had exactly two. Only one is still alive. Haymitch Abernathy, a paunchy, middle-aged man, who at this moment is yelling something unintelligible, staggers on stage, and falls into the third chair. He’s drunk. Very. The crowd responds with its usual applause, but he’s confused and tries to give Effie a big hug, which she barely fends off. The mayor looks distressed. Since this is being televised live, right now District twelve is the laughingstock of all of Panem, and he knows it. He quickly pulls the attention back to the reaping by introducing Effie Trinket. Bright and bubbly as ever, she trots to the podium and gives her signature, “Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!” Now I start to think about Kati's, and her twenty slips in that bowl. “Ladies first!” Effie says as she digs deeply in the bowl, looking for one name. Not Katniss. Not Katniss. Not Katniss. I repeat it again and again in my mind. Effie pulls out the one slip and reads it loud and clear. It’s not Katniss. It’s her little sister, Primrose Everdeen.

Its Lauren again. Just wanted to tell you guys to comment please. I uploaded three today and the next few will be available within the week. Again, al of these ideas are Suzanne Collins. So again, please comment!! i need feedback!!