The Boy With The Bread- By Peeta

Chapter 1 - The Reaping

- This is a fan fiction of the Hunger Games, told by Peeta Mellark. Please comment and let me know what you think! Enjoy! :D 

I wake early to sweat pouring down my face. I’ve been in and out of sleep for most of the night. Today is the day of the reaping. Of course, I don’t have anything to worry about,considering the fact that I don’t claim extra tessera. I’m a baker’s son you see. 

Rubbing my eyes, I drag myself downstairs to the bakery where my father has already got the first batch of bread in the oven. “Morning son.” he says cheerily. “Don’t mind giving me a hand do you? It’s just, with the reaping, the sales will boom today.” I give a small nod and get started on kneading some fresh dough. I do this continually for the next half an hour or so until my mother comes stomping into the room. “Morning. What you wearing son? You’re supposed to look smart for the reaping.” She is in a bad mood- I can tell.

“I’ve only been up for half an hour, give me a chance will you.” I say miserably starting to ice the cookies for the wealthy. 

“Enough of the attitude. And I want you dressed in your best clothes for the reaping.” she snaps. I can only manage a nod and go back to icing the biscuits. I can’t help but hate my mother at times. I hear her stomp upstairs, huffing and puffing as she goes.

At one o’clock, we head for the square. Attendance is mandatory unless you are on death’s door. Later tonight, the officials will come round to your house and check and if you are found to be lying, you will be imprisoned. At the square, the atmosphere is rather tense, and some children are even at the thought of their name being reaped. I notice some of my friends from school in the crowd and we exchange a small nod. Quietly, I sign in and file into the area that is cordoned off for my age- near the front. Twelve to eighteen year olds are herded into different sections with the oldest at the front and the youngest towards the back. I see my mother, father and older brother standing around the edge. My mother looks done up for the occasion, in a navy suit, red necktie and shiny, black shoes. Her auburn hair twisted above her head and her rosy cheeks glowing in the misty haze. My brother who is called Fox, works in the market square, buying and selling goods at the market. He doesn’t live with us anymore. He lives in a nice little house at the edge of the meadow. It’s quite big really considering I’ve only been there once or twice.

People who don’t have a care in the world, bet on what kids will be chosen to compete in the Games. Whether they will be from the Seam or not. Whether they will break down and cry. The space around me starts to fill up as more and more people begin to arrive. I keep telling myself to man up- I am not going to be chosen. I live in a fairly nice part of District 12. I don’t claim tesserae. My name is in there a couple of times. I find myself standing near the back with a group of kids who I suspect are from the Seam. Dirty looking but made an effort all the same. There is alot of mumbling and muttering going on around me, but I choose to ignore it. My gaze shifts to the make shift stage in front of the Justice Building. Three chairs, and two big glass balls stand on a table- one for the boys, and one of the girls. The Justice Building isn’t used for very much. Only for the kids who sign up for extra tessera, or where you go if you are chosen to take part in the Hunger Games. There’s one in each district, so nothing special. I focus on the neatly folded pieces of paper, in the large glass ball and tell myself that there is only one with my name on, written in messy handwriting. One out of thousands. What are the odds on that?

At that moment, the clock strikes two and the mayor steps out onto the stage and  begins to talk about the history of our country in a husky voice. “Panem. Rose out of the ashes. There have been numerous disasters, droughts, fires, storms and of course the brutal war. A powerful Capitol runs our country. Controls our district.” What he is basically trying to say is that we live in one of the poorer districts. He then goes on to say about the uprisings when the districts fought against the Capitol. Twelve were defeated and the thirteenth completely destroyed. Then came the Hunger Games- a cruel reminder for what happened. A reminder of those Dark Days. A punishment for what happened. One rule- kill or be killed. Each district must provide one boy and one girl tribute (participant) who will take part in the Games. Then they must fight in an arena customized and controlled by the Gamemakers. There are cruel tricks made by the Gamemakers in which there is the ultimate battle for survival. Then the mayor goes on to read a list of past victors from District 12. In seventy four years, we have had only two. Only one is still alive. A drunken, middle aged man staggers onto the stage and collapses into the third chair. Haymitch Abernathy. He gives a woman who is wearing what I suspect is a pink wig, a hug and startles her.

An eccentric woman (the one who was hugged by Haymitch) whose name is Effie Trinket, bustles around the stage and smiles out into the audience. “Welcome, welcome to the 74th Annual Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favour! Ladies first!” she says dipping her long fingers into the glass ball and after digging deep, pulls out a slip of paper. The audience draws in collective breath and then she is unfolding the bit of paper. She crosses to the podium and smoothes it over. “Primrose Everdeen.” she smiles.