Sympathy

Chapter 1

-Katniss Everdeen-

"The female tribute of District 12 who will be joining us in the 74th Hunger Games this year will be..."

I look at the crazily dressed woman who's called Effie Trinket in anticipation as she looks down to the slip of paper she's holding.

Please don't let it be me.

Please don't let it be me.

Please don't let it be me.

"Primrose Everdeen!"

I turn my head to meet Prim's eyes, which are starting to fill with panic, realizing what she has to face.

'Katniss' she mouths as tears start to fill her eyes.

I'm frozen. Just one tiny slip of paper among thousands of others. The odds of her getting reaped were as close to zero as possible. 

I snap out of my thoughts when Effie squeals "And now, for the boys!" That's it. I've missed my chance to volunteer. My 12-year-old sister will most likely die. Very soon. In a violent public arena. A single tear rolls down my cheek.

"Peeta Mellark!" Effie exclaims excitedly. 

My mind wanders off again to the deepest depths of my memories. I remember this Peeta Mellark standing outside the bakery his family owns. It was a rainy late afternoon. My family hadn't eaten for days and you could easily see the outlines of all our ribs. My father has just passed away in a horrific mine explosion and my mother shut herself off from the world, so, just at the age of eleven, I had to take over as head of the family. 

I went to the Hob, the black market of District 12, to trade some of Prim's old baby clothes for food. No luck. 

On my way home, I dropped the clothes. I didn't care. They were old and besides, no-one wanted them. And if I went back for them, who knows I would ever get back up. I walked past the bakery and looked in their rubbish bins for leftovers. Unfortunately, they were just emptied. 

I tried to continue my way home, but I only made it to the apple tree in front of the bakery. My knees gave up and I slumped to the ground. I allowed myself to think of a happy memory of a day in the woods with my father, hunting. He made me my own bow and that day I shot my very first squirrel. I was genuinely happy that day. We also sang for the mockingjays. They repeated our songs in cheerful chirps. But I let my father sing most of the time. He had such a beautiful voice that all the birds fell silent to listen. 

I eventually accepted my death, right there, right under the apple tree, before a boy my age threw me a loaf of bread. It was burnt on the edge, but it was something. The thought of Prim's smile at the food gave me an adrenaline kick. 

I tucked the loaf under my shirt, clinging on it as if it were my lifeline, which, of course, it was. As I ran home, the bread radiated heat on my skin. 

By the time I dashed through the back door, the loaf was cooled off, but the insides were still warm. I scraped off the burnt area and we ate half of it. Even my mother joined us. 

That night, we weren't interrupted by our rumbling stomachs. We had a good night's sleep for the first time in weeks. I know already I won't have one for the weeks to come because I won't forget my Primrose. My Primrose. Who begged to admire the beautifully frosted cakes in the display of the bakery. Who wept when I tried to drown Buttercup, the ugly tomcat she now owns. Who still polished our father's shaving mirror every day, because they both hated the thick layer of coal dust that settled on everything in District 12. My Primrose, who is now forced into a public arena to fight to the death.