FAN FICTION

 

As he opens his eyes, there is nothing remarkable to be seen. There is nothing unusual around the shadows on his bedroom desk. There is nothing special in the light creeping in through the curtains. The only reminder of what today is, is that additional pressure he feels inside his chest. He wouldn’t call it fear. Fear is certainly a part of it, but that alone does not describe the vacuum that fills his heart.

 

He turns towards the ceiling, taking one last breath before getting up, gathering up his strength to face today. As his thoughts clear with the morning air, he lets that feeling take over. As he breathes in, he allows himself to be filled by the injustice around him, and as his body awakens, he feels the frustration from his own unimportance. If only he could fight them, if only he could erase everything and let the world grow free again -he holds the air in his lungs for a few seconds- if only there were a chance to live, to start over, the same way birds get a fresh start every spring -he exhales-. But what can he, a mere baker’s son, do against the Capitol?

 

As he starts to get ready, he notices the first sign of an unusual day: silence. Usually, whenever he gets up, he can already hear the trays banging from the floor below. He is not a late riser, he is typically awake before any of his brothers are, but no matter what time it is or how early he goes down, his father is always there working on the next batch of bread.

 

Everyday he sees his father with his white shirt -a bit of flour always in the air- working away the dough, or keeping the oven hot, or carefully arranging the hot loaves on top of the cooling racks. As soon as he walks in, he catches his father’s eyes and his good morning nod and he notices the glimpse of a smile, the kind that disappears before you were ever certain it was even there.

 

His father was always a man of few words. He would not call him a sad man, but he was not a happy one either, in fact, he usually wondered if his father ever felt happy or sad at all. He was a strange figure, reliable, trustworthy, loyal; he cared for his family and he loved all his kids, though he never said it. He was a practical man, the kind that knew the world they lived in, and though his eyes sometimes reflected anger and disapproval at the extreme punishments dispensed by the peacekeepers, he never said a word about the Capitol or spoke badly of their district.

 

His mother usually walked in soon after he did, more often than not she would walk in from the backyard where she was cleaning the pigpen. She would take her shoes and apron off and put on cleaner ones to go to the market and probably run other errands. As long as she was in front of him, she would rant on about a dozen things, telling him to arrange his clothes and listing all the chores he should finish that day. Just like his father was a man of few words, his mother was never at a loss for them. She was always shouting, demanding, even after questioning something, she would only wait a few seconds before answering herself. He usually wondered why would someone like his father, someone so noble and quiet, end up with someone like his mother, someone so controlling and loud. But if he stopped to think about it, he would notice the little things, how his mother was fierce, but good at managing the bakery, how his father never had to worry about a reply and he could simply focus on his work. Looking at him quietly, he understood that was the only way his dad could manage life, by being left alone. She somehow shielded him from the world and allowed him to be himself in the background.

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He walked down the stairs, and noticed again how this morning was different: the only morning throughout the year that the kitchen was empty; the hard curtains still rolled down outside. It made sense, no customers would arrive until past the reap.

 

He poured himself half a cup of hot water and mixed in some of the stale chocolate powder he kept in his container. Gathered from the broken remains inside the molds and a few old chocolate chips, he always kept his container with a few spoonfuls of dried chocolate, to enjoy on Sunday mornings, or during particularly cold winter days. This day was extra special though, and he even dared pour a sip of milk into his cup, just a tiny splash, but still enough to give his cup that extra creaminess he enjoyed so much. If only he could fill his cup to the rim, maybe he would even see a bit of foam appear, the way he had seen it happen whenever a full cup was ordered by the head peacekeeper or a visiting authority. But no, that would require pouring in more than his share, and that would mean one of his brothers would be without. Taking more was something he never even gave a second thought. He loved his brothers and, though they never admitted it, he knew they loved him back, and respecting each other’s share was the highest way of showing their love as a family. Something their father had always taught them was to respect their share. They were all hungry, but they were family, and family meant they all worked together to survive. Even their mother, who always complained at how careless they were for ripping their clothes during a fight or muddying their shoes chasing each other around the pigs, she always made sure they all had the same number of shirts and the same number of socks, even when it meant one pair had to be split up or the fabric of one used to mend a torned sleeve. Strangely enough, when it came to food, she never complained.

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She was strict with the bread from the bakery, and she screamed at them if they ever messed up the items from the window -“No customer is ever going to walk in if you keep leaving your fingerprints all over the powdered biscuits! Try to be careful and pretend you can carry a tray five steps without tripping! You want to fool around? Do it at the market! Those people from the seam will buy anything, even if you cover it in coal powder!”- But when it was time for dinner, she would always eat in silence. She would fill her plate with whatever they had for the day, be it real meat from the butcher, or roasted squirrel, with one eye missing due to the arrow that pierced its skull…

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... her arrow.

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Chapter 2

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He was so focused on his thoughts, that he didn’t even notice when his dad walked in, carrying a sack of flour he just collected from the shed.

-"Morning" -his father said as he dropped the flour next to the back door -"I thought you would sleep in longer today."
-"Good morning dad." He replies as he puts down his cup and stands up to greet his father. -"Need me to get another flour sack for you?"
-"No need, this should be enough for the time."
Somehow, his voice sounded deeper than usual. As if his thoughts had not yet fully come back to him. His mind still caught wherever it was roaming before he entered the house.
-"I can help with the dough. I don’t have to get ready for a couple of hours. I could make myself useful in the meantime."
His father smiled faintly -"Already finished"- he said without looking up.
-"All of it?" -he exclaimed in surprise as he walked towards the back room and stared at the racks. Indeed, two of them were already full. He was so used to the smell of fresh bread, that it didn't even register as unexpected this time around. His father did not reply. He simply proceeded to restock the different containers with sugar and the flour he had just hauled in.

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Peeta stared at the cooling racks and at it's contents for a moment (wheat bread and an assortment of biscuits). He felt the trays with the tip of his fingers, they were only slightly warm to the touch. As he slid his fingers along the edge of the tray, he wondered how difficult this must all be for his father. How it must feel like to carry the fear of losing not one, but three sons to a meaningless struggle now forgotten? How hopeless he must be, unable to do anything to protect the ones he loves. Peeta started to feel the burden of frustration building again inside his chest. He looks back at his father quietly, and for the first time, he notices how that weight has accumulated over his father’s back. For the first time, he sees the worry, not only from today, but stretching back to all the years before, accumulated on him the same way the odds accumulate against himself every year inside that crystal bowl. Now that he sees it, he realizes it has always been there; it is a part of his father, inseparable from the man behind, just like the smell of bread. He recognizes some of the anguish he has felt slowly growing inside himself. Crushing first his chest and radiating to his limbs with every passing year. Do his brothers feel it too? Do their backs grow heavier as well? His mom? After all, every year that passes, the odds are higher that one of them won’t come back. And they all know it.

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He stares at his father, wishing he could take some of that pain away.  Wishing he could find a bit of hope for him to share.

-"Remember, it is only two of us this year. And it is also the last year for Dan. Must be a relief, right? Not having to worry about all three of us from now on?" - he hoped his father would find comfort in this, but his father stared back at him, holding his gaze straight to his, and he looked at him the way one looks at a small child, admiring his innocence, and said -"That is not how fatherhood works"-.

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Peeta could feel his sadness, and he understood that his job as a father was to keep his children safe, and from his perspective, he had already failed.

 

This was deeper than the games. The games just made it more present and there was nothing more that could be done. As long as they were alive, they would be in danger, and his father would worry about them with the same anguish he worried now.

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He felt his own mind spiralig down in despair. Behind it all, the meaning was not lost: no one was safe, no one was ever safe. From the games to the daily oppression, Peeta felt the reach of the Capitol crushing every citizen, stealing them their future by depriving them of hope. He realized there were only two paths to follow: to die fast and violently, like the tributes, or to die slowly and quietly, like his father.

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His father noticed this, and he suddenly broke his train of thought by saying -"I'll tell you how you can make yourself useful. Bring the products into the front and arrange them for sale, they should be cool enough to handle already. That way we can open up shop as soon as we are back. I'll go clean up in the meantime."

 

Peeta made his way to the back straight away, ready to do as his father said, and as he came back with a trolley, his father added -"leave one of those trays in the kitchen" -he said pointing to the biscuits- "they'll make a nice addition to the chocolate. I think we all deserve a nice breakfast". Peeta looked at him and was about to speak, but his father stopped him before he could get one word out -"Don't worry about your mother. She won't complain. Not today".

 

As Peeta was starting to unload the wheat bread, he noticed one loaf was already missing -"I thought there were no customers this morning" - he said to his father, who was already making his way up the stairs. His father turned back to see what his son was talking about, and as he looked at the empty spot, his eyes lingered on the outline left by the absent loaf. -"Oh... just one." -he said, and then, in that same distant voice, he added -"I think some people refuse to let the Capitol rob them of their routine."

 

As his father went up, these words resonated with Peeta, and as he pondered who this mysterious customer was, he realized his father was not just referring to them, but he was talking about himself.

 

Despite the worry, despite the hopelessness, there was still something inside his father that the Capitol had not managed to crush: his true self. Even if he could not keep his kids safe forever, he would still wake up every day and work hard to keep them fed.  That is who he was, and he would continue to be. He felt a wave of love and respect for him, and feeling somehow comforted, he turned back to work.

 

Deep down, his despair faded as he understood that it was not only about fighting or cowering down. There was another way. Another way to live, to remain strong, to remain true, and to show those in power that there were things they could never take away.

 

Even if he did not know it yet, this would be the most valuable lesson he would learn from his father. 

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Chapter 3

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Halfway in the morning, as they were finishing breakfast, different sounds started to emanate from the market square. Starting with a faint humming that appeared to originate far away, it quickly grew to a racket standing just outside their door. They could hear hammers and the banging of boards, which indicated the platform being built. A few other indistinct noises made their way to them, filtering in through the store front. They could pick up muffled orders being shout across the street and the metallic clatter of tubes being dropped.  Even if they could not see it, an image started to form inside their heads. Soon the entire central square would be covered in banners and large screens. This was their cue to dress up.

 

As the clock marked 1:30 pm, they were ready to step outside. There was no need to leave this early other than to beat the crowd. The two brothers still eligible for reaping had a prime spot ensured: a front row place for Dan, next to the other 18 year olds from the district; and a still close to center spot for Peeta two rows back, with the rest of the 16 year olds. But his eldest brother and his parents would have to find their own place, and it was always better to try and remain in the square, to avoid the chaos that would follow after the cameras stop rolling and the entire population was released at once.

 

As Peeta was standing in the kitchen, waiting for the last of his brothers to come down, he noticed five biscuits still on the tray. They must be his father's. He looked at his dad, trying to asses any signs of illness, or something else that might explain his even more absent state. But his father simply looked at the biscuits as if he had forgotten they were there, and taking a long napkin, wrapped them around with care and put them in his pocket. And so, they all walked out together.

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By 1:50 pm almost everyone is positioned. The camera crews are ready, every peacekeeper on duty is patrolling their designated area. A few youths are still joining the lines already formed in the middle of the square, but the empty spaces were  quickly filling up. Other latecomers not belonging to the harvest pool would now be forced to find a suitable spot on the side roads.

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By 1:55 pm every member of the district is properly in place. Silence reigns all around, with only the peacekeepers footsteps resonating between the crowd. A heavy door opens in the main building, and the members of the Official Games Committee for District 12 make their way to the platform. A few officials walk in front, and one by one position themselves along the way, forming a loose barrier from the building to the platform steps. Two people make their way all up to the platform and occupy two of the three seats there placed. They whisper at each other and stare with concern at the empty seat.

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The clock moves in slow motion, as Peeta surveys the faces of those around him.

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Left and right he sees the frightened eyes of children. Boys and girls alike trying their best not to move, to appear calm, either for themselves, or for their parents or maybe even for the cameras. It is strange, everyone is scared - yet no one likes to show it. It puzzles him how so many strive to deny their own feelings even in daily life, as if this would distance themselves from the world around. But to him, it makes no sense. Closing your eyes does not make the monster go away, not when it is standing in front of you.

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He sees his brother standing in the front, he doesn’t need to see his eyes to recognize he is afraid. He can tell by how he stands with his head down, hands shifting in the back. He is nervous. Peeta looks to his left and finds his family. His mother looks annoyed, she probably hates standing around so many people, she has that disapproving look on her face as she stares at an older gentleman from the seam standing to her right. His older brother is standing right behind her, even though he is safe from the games, he still has that remanent fear on his face, he looks at the names on the glass bowl with the same eyes a small child might look at his siblings being reprimanded and knows he might be next. His father is staring back at him, as their eyes lock he can feel his desperation. A sudden rush of sadness takes over him, as the threat of the reap solidifies when the clock tower strikes 2pm.

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To him, the floor appears to open up beneath, and anyone is at risk of falling. This is it. Time to hang on and hope it is not his name the one that’s called.

 

His head starts to feel lightheaded, so he focuses on the mayor, who has just approached the stand for the initial proclamation. He can hear the words, but he is not really listening. He knows the story, and all he can think of is how two of them will soon fall down the pit.

After the usual start, the first name is taken: the girl tribute. He closes his eyes, waiting to see if it’s a name he recognizes, already lamenting the death sentence about to be uttered. And so it comes, Effie’s high voice cuts through the silence: “Primrose Everdeen”.

Everdeen? He quickly opens his eyes at the sound of the name. His heart skips a beat as he recognizes it, but the first name is not right. The commotion in the back catches his attention, a little girl is standing alone as those around her move two steps away. Are they afraid of falling with her? Or are they simply making way for her to go? He sees her in between the others, she is just a little girl, she shouldn’t even be here yet, or can it be she is already 12 years old? She must, for despite her pale face and her panicked eyes, she starts walking towards the tribune.

 

"No, not her" - his mind shouts. "She is just a kid, she’s just her little sister".

 

He looks to the right, trying to find the other owner of the name. He finds her quickly, even without trying. It appears his perception had already detected her a few minutes ago.  One glance was enough for him to find her. She stood out in his eyes, outshining everyone in that blue dress. She was wearing her hair up, but the last 10 seconds seam to have robbed all the color from her face. With an absent stare, she appeared to lose her balance and another kid had to hold her arm.

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The youngest Everdeen was now walking towards the tribune. Underneath the shock, he could see that unusual determination of someone who has accepted her faith. She was indeed just a twelve year old, but her eyes confirmed she was no longer a child, her childhood was robbed the moment she took that first step.

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Suddenly, the calmness was interrupted by someone screaming her name.

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"Prim!"- a second shout was heard as the eldest sister suddenly awakens from her shock, and without letting another second pass by, she runs to jump in front of her baby sister.

She will not let her fall.

She will take her place.

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She acts like a mother defending her cub, pushing her behind as she brings the attention on her. His heart stops as he witnesses such manifestation of love.

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"I volunteer as Tribute" - and so she jumped.