The Hunger Games: The Untold Story of Peeta Mellark PART ONE

chapter four

Peeta Mellark PART ONE continued...

My family takes our time walking to the square, in no rush to get there early; we finally arrive shortly before 2. Cameras are stationed all around the stage, that was temporarily set up before the Justice Building, in order to capture this monumental moment for all of Panem to see. The whole town is there, all 8 thousand of us. Attendance is mandatory unless you’re on your deathbed. We sign in before we enter, one of the last ones to arrive.

There’s barely any room left, Strucla and I try to squeeze through the aloof crowd into our designated areas. The oldest are stationed in the front, since they have a greater chance of being chosen, and the youngest in the back. Luckily Strucla and I are meant to stand in pretty much the same area but we’re eventually forced to separate to make room for the masses of people filling in. He gives me one last look before he fades into the crowd and for the first time in a while I get the sense that he actually cares for me. I shuffle into a group of all the 16s and find five of my friends from the town, Jackson, Emmet, Janice, Attalla, and Burghen all with the same somber expression. They glance at me and I nod. This isn’t much of a social hour.

Promptly Mayor Undersee begins by reading a speech I’ve heard hundreds of times about the capitol’s version of the history of Panem and their heroic domination victory of the rebellion. I’m sure there’s much more to the story than the little that we’re told.

I doze off as he begins to explain all about the dark days and the Treaty of Treason, which ultimately, as we all know, resulted in the Hunger Games. I’m awoken by the drunken cry of Haymitch Abernathy, the only remaining victor of district 12. There have only been 2 altogether in all 73 years of the hunger games. He’s really let himself go. While only about 40 years old, he could pass for at least 50. Paunchy with matted blond hair and an unkempt beard, living breathing proof that you can never truly win the hunger games. Even if you’re spared your body, something dies inside of you, slowly poisoning your mind until your nothing but a walking corpse. Maybe it’s better just to die in that arena. 

A smile forces itself onto my face when Haymitch begins harrassing the brassy Effie Trinket, the hunger games escort for district twelve, fresh from the capitol. He falls onto Effie and sloppily wraps  himself around her in a druken embrace. She may have some potential to be attractive if it weren’t for her gaudy capitol clothes, garish pink wig, heavy makeup, and unnaturally white grin that makes her look like a freakish clown. Effie looks so disgusted by Haymitch’s grimy fingers that i wouldn't even be suprised if she was considering taking a painful trip back to the capitol in her spikey high heals. I actually laugh out loud.

The mayor looks distressed, aware of the fact that district twelve is about to become the laughingstock of  Panem. Once Effie’s is able to release herself from Haymitch’s grasp she staggers into the center of the stage grabs the microphone from the mayor’s hands and squeals “Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!” in that ridiculous capitol accent of hers. “What an honor it is to be here in district twelve!” She exclaims a little bit too enthusiastically. I roll my eyes because I know that she really hates it here. What capitol citizen wouldn’t? She must just be dying for a promotion to a better district. Unfortunately that does not seem to be in her cards, not unless district twelve can bring home a victor.

“Ladies first!” Effie says once it’s time for the drawing, as she does every year. She really needs some new material; all of her usual Hunger Games antics are getting pretty old. She crosses the stage to the glass ball housing the names of all of the girls in district 12, ages twelve to eighteen. I, a long with the rest of district 12, hold my breath as she digs her hand into the ball and draws out a slip of paper. Which young girl’s fate will this seal? I silently pray that it’s not a girl I know. What if it’s Janice? Or Attalla? Or Katniss. Effie Trinket trots back to the podium, her ridiculous pink wig bobbing as she goes. She smoothes out the slip of paper, could she do this any more slowly? A name is read. “Primrose Everdeen.”

At first I take a small sigh of relief. At least I don’t know this girl, right? And then suddenly the name Everdeen rings in my ear. Everdeen, Everdeen, Everdeen. Katniss Everdeen. That’s Katniss’ little sister. I see a very frail looking twelve-year-old child. Her face pale, drained of blood. Her hands clenched into tiny fists. The image of absolute terror lies in her blue eyes. She stiffly walks toward the stage.