82Disclaimer: I'm rewriting certain aspects of the books, while keeping the main plot line intact. I could have done this as a bunch of one-shots, but it wouldn't do the story I want to paint any justice. Except for one kiss I'm doing away with the Katniss and Gale relationship because going by the first book Katniss didn't see Gale like that. I'm going to flesh out Katniss and Peeta's relationship differently; meaning that I will have them fight for each more; as opposed to having them at odds, except for one section, like in the books and movies.
Summary: What if the Star Crossed Lovers of District 12 wasn't an act? What if the kiss on the cheek that Katniss gave Peeta after the opening ceremony, which she meant in an almost devious manner, awoken something within her that Katniss thought she had sworn off: love. This my imperfect retelling of The Hunger Games trilogy, except Katniss stays true to Peeta. Since this is an alternate universe I will mix things up a bit; that being said it is only an alternate universe in certain spots, I will still quote the book for important parts. Also I will use both the movies and the books in tandem, but I will be using the books more for source material. Also I'm writing this story in the context that the readers have already read the original trilogy, so I won't be going into full detail whenever a new character, or aspect is brought into the story.
When I wake up, the other side of the bed is cold. My fingers stretch out, seeking Prim's warmth but only finding the rough canvas of the mattress cover. She must have had bad dreams and climbed in with our mother. Of course, she did. This is the day of the reaping.
I prop myself up on one elbow. There's enough light in the bedroom to see them. My little sister, Prim, curled up on her side, cocooned in my mother's body, their cheeks pressed together. In sleep, my mother looks younger, still worn but not so beaten down. Prim's face is as fresh as a raindrop, as the primrose for which she was named. My mother was beautiful, too. Or so I was told.
Sitting at Prim's knee, guarding her, is the world's ugliest cat. Mashed-in nose, half one ear is missing, eyes the color of rotted squash. Prim named him Buttercup, insisting that his muddy yellow coat matched the bright flowers. He hates me. At least distrust me. Even though it was years ago. I think he still remembers me trying to drown him in a bucket when Prim brought him home. Scrawny kitten, belly swollen with worms, crawling with fleas. The last thing I need is another mouth to feed. But Prim begged so hard, cried even, I had to let him stay. It turned out okay. My mother got rid of the vermin and he's a born mouser. Even catches the occasional rat. Sometimes, when I clean a kill, I feed Buttercup the entrails. He has stopped hissing at me.
Entrails. No hissing. This is the closet we will ever come to love. I swing my legs off the bed and slide into my hunting boots. The supple leather that has molded to my feet. I pull on trousers, a shirt, tuck my long dark braid up into a cap, and grab my forage bag. On the table, under a wooden bowl to protect from hungry rats and cats alike, sits a perfect little goat cheese wrapped in basil leaves. Prim's gift to me on reaping day. I put the cheese carefully in my pocket as I slip out the door.
Our part of District 12, nicknamed the Seam, is usually crawling with coal miners heading out to the morning shift at this hour. Men and women with hunch shoulders and swollen knuckles, many who have long since stopped trying to scrub the coal dust from their broken nails, lines of their sunken face. But today the black cinder streets are empty. Shutter on the squat grays house are closed. The reaping isn't until two. May as well sleep in. If you can.
Our house is almost at the edge of the Seam. I only have to pass a few gates to reach a scruffy field called the Meadow. Separating the Meadow from the woods, in fact enclosing all of District 12, is a high chain-linked fence topped with barbed-wire loops. In theory it's supposed to be electrified twenty-four hours a day as a deterrent to predators that live in the woods—pack of wild dogs, lone cougars, bears—that usually threaten our streets. But since we're lucky to get two or three hours of electricity in the evening, it's usually safe to touch. Even so, I always take a moment to listen carefully for the hum that means the fence is live. Right now, it's as silent as a stone. Concealed by a clump of bushes, I flatten out on my belly and slide under a two-foot stretch that has been loose for years. There are several other weak spots in the fence, but this one is so close to home. I almost always enter the woods from here.
As soon as I'm in the trees I retrieve a bow and quiver of arrows from a hollow log. Electrified or not, the fence has kept flesh-eaters out of the District 12. Inside the woods the roam free, and there are other added concerns like venomous snakes, rabid animals and no real paths to follow. But there is also food if you know how to find it. My father knew and taught me some before he was blown to bits in a mine explosion. There was nothing even to bury. I was eleven then. Five years later, I still wake up screaming for him to run.
Even though trespassing in the woods is illegal and poaching carries the severest penalties, more people would risk it if they had weapons. But most are not bold enough to venture out with just a knife. My bow is a rarity, craft by my father along with a few others that I keep well hidden in the woods, carefully wrapped in a waterproof covers. My father could have made good money selling them, but if the officials found out he would have been publically executed for inciting a rebellion. Most of the Peacekeeper turn a blind eye to us hunters because they're as hungry for fresh meat as anybody. In fact, they're among our best customers. But the idea that someone arming the Seam would never be allowed.
In fall, a few brave souls sneak into the woods to harvest apples. But in sight of the Meadow. Always close enough to run back to the safety District 12 if troubles arise. "District Twelve. Where you can starve to death in safety," I mutter. Then I quickly glance over my shoulder. Even here, even in the middle of nowhere, you worry someone might overhear you.
When I was younger, I scared my mother to death with the things that I blurted out about District 12, about the people who rule our country, Panem, from the far-off city called the Capitol. Eventually I understood this would only lead us to more trouble. So I learned to hold my tongue and to turn my features into an indifferent mask so that no one could read my thoughts. Do my work quietly in school. Make polite small talk in public market. Discuss little more than trade in the Hob, which is a black market where I make most of my money. Even at home, where I'm less pleasant, I avoid discussing tricky topics. Like the reaping, or shortage of food, or the Hunger Games. Prim might begin to repeat words and then where would we be?
In the woods awaits the only person with whom I could be myself with. Gale. I can feel the muscles in my face relaxing, my pace quickening as I climb the hills to our place, a rock overlooking a valley. A thicket of berry bushes protects it from unwanted eyes. The sight of him waiting there brings on a smile. Gale says I never smile except in the woods.
"Hey, Catnip," say Gale. My real name is Katniss, but when I first told him, I barely whispered it. So he thought I said Catnip. Then when this crazy lynx started following me around the woods looking for handouts, it became his official name. I finally had to kill the lynx because he scared of game. I almost regretted it because he wasn't bad company. But I got a decent price for his pelt.
"Look what I shot." Gale holds up a loaf of bread with an arrow in it, and I laughed. It's real bakery bread, not the flat, dense loaves we make from our grain rations. I take it in my hand, pull the arrow out, and hold the puncture in the crust to my nose, inhaling the fragrance that makes my mouth flood with saliva. Fine bread like this is for special occasions.
"Mm, still warm," I say. He must have been at the bakery at the crack of dawn to trade for it. "What did it cost you?"
"Just a squirrel. Think the old man is feeling sentimental this morning," says Gale. "Even wished me luck.
"Well, we all feel closer today, don't we?" I say, not even bothering to role my eye. "Prim left us cheese." I pull out.
His expression brightens at the treat. "Thank you, Prim. We'll have a real treat." Suddenly he falls into a Capitol accent as he mimics Effie Trinket, the manically upbeat woman who arrives once a year to read out the names at the reaping. "I almost forgot! Happy Hunger Games!" He plucks a few blackberries from the bush around us. "And may the odds—" he tosses a berry in a high arc towards me.
I catch it in my mouth and break the delicate skin with my teeth. The sweet tartness explodes across my tongue. "—be ever in your favor!" I finish with equal verve. We have to joke about it because the alternative is to be scared out of your wits. Besides, the Capitol accent is affected, almost anything sounds funny in it.
I watch as Gale pulls out his knife and slices the bread. He could be my brother. Straight black hair, olive skin, we even have the same grey eyes. But we're not related, at least not closely anyways. Most families that work the mines resemble one another.
That's why my mother and Prim, with their light hair and blue eyes, always look out of place. They are. My mother's parents were part of a small merchant class that carter to officials, Peacekeepers, and the occasional Seam customer. They ran an apothecary in the nicer part of District 12. Since almost no one can afford doctors, apothecaries are our healers. My father got to know my mother because on his hunts he would sometimes collect medicinal plants and sell them to her shop to be brewed into remedies. She must have really loved him to leave home for the Seam. I try to remember that when all I can see is the woman who had sat by, blank and unreachable, while her children turned to skin and bones. I try to forgive her for my father's sake. But to be honest, I'm not the forgiving type.
Gale spreads the bread slices with soft goat cheese, carefully placing a basil leaf on each while I strip the bushes of their berries. We settle back in a nook in the rocks. From this place we are invisible but have a clear view of the valley, which is teaming with summer life, greens to gather, roots to dig, iridescent fish shimmering in the sunlight. The food's wonderful, with the cheese seeping into the warm bread and the berries bursting in our mouths. Everything would be perfect if this really was a holiday, if all the day off meant was roaming the mountain with Gale, hunting for tonight's supper. But instead we have to be standing in the square at two o'clock waiting for names to be called out.
"We could do it, you know," Gale says quietly.
"What?" I ask
"Leave the district. Run off. Live in the woods. You and I, we could make it," says Gale.
I don't know how to respond. The idea is so preposterous.
"If we didn't have so many kids," he responds quickly.
They're not our kids, of course. But they might as well be. Gale has two little brothers and a sister. Prim. And you may as well throw our mothers in there as well, too, because how would they live without us. Who would fill those mouths that are always asking for more? With both of us hunting daily, there are still nights when game has to be swapped for lard or shoelaces or wool, still nights when we go to bed with our stomachs growling.
"I never want to have kids," I say.
"I might, if I didn't live here," says Gale.
"But you do," I say irritated.
"Forget it," he snaps back.
This conversation feels all wrong. Leave? How could I leave Prim, who is the only person in the world I'm certain I love? And Gale is devoted to his family. We can't leave so why bother talking about it? And even if we did… even if we did… where did this stuff come from about having kids? There's never been anything romantic between me and Gale. When we met, I was a skinny twelve year old girl, and although he was two years older than me, he already looked like a man. It took a long time for us to be friends, to stop haggling over every trade and begin helping each other out.
Besides, if he wants kid, Gale won't have any trouble finding a wife. He's good looking, strong enough to handle work in the mines, and he can hunt. You can tell by the way the girls whisper about him when he walks by in school that they want him. It makes me jealous but not for the reason people would think. Good hunting partners are hard to find.
"What do you want to do?" I ask. We can hunt, fish, or gather.
"Let's fish at the lake. We can leave our poles, and gather in the woods. Get something nice for tonight," he says.
Tonight. After the reaping, everyone is supposed to celebrate. And everyone does, out of relief for their children having been spared another year. But at least two families will pull their shutters, lock their doors, and try to figure out how they will survive the painful weeks to come.
We make out well. The predators ignore us on a day when easier, tastier prey abounds. By late morning, we have a dozen fish, a bag of greens and, best of all, a gallon of strawberries. I found the patch a few years ago, and Gale had the idea of stringing mesh nets around it to keep out the animals.
On the way home we swing by the Hob, the black market that operates in an abandoned warehouse that once held coal. When they came up with more efficient system that transport the coal from the mines to the trains, the Hob gradually took over the space. Most businesses are closed by this time on reaping day, but the black market is still fairly busy. We easily trade six of the fish for good bread the other two for salt. Greasy Sae, the bony old woman who sells bowls of hot soup from a large kettle, takes half the greens off our hands in exchange for a couple of chunks of paraffin. We might do a tad better elsewhere, but we make an effort to stay on good terms with Greasy Sae. She's the only one who can be consistently counted on to buy wild dog. We don't hunt them on purposed, but if you're attacked and you take a dog or two, well, meat is meat. "Once it's in the soup, I'll call it beef," Greasy Sae says with a wink. No one in the Seam would turn up their nose at a good leg of wild dog, but the Peacekeepers can afford to be a little choosier.
When we finish our business at the market, we go to the back door of the mayor's house to sell half the strawberries, know he has a particular fondness for them and can afford our price. The mayor's daughter, Madge, opens the door. She's in my year at school. Being the mayor's daughter, you'd expect her to be a snob, but she's alright. She keeps to herself. Like me. Since neither of us really have a group of friends, we seem to end up together a lot at school. Eating lunch, sitting next to each other at assemblies, partnering for sports activities. We rarely talk, which suits us both fine.
Today her drab school outfit has been replace by an expensive white dress, and her blonde hair has been done up with a pink ribbon. Reaping clothes.
"Pretty dress," says Gale.
Madge shoots him a look, trying to see if it's a genuine comment of if he's being sarcastic. It is a pretty dress, but she would never be wearing it ordinarily. She presses her lips together and smiles. "Well, if I end up go to the Capitol, I want to look nice, don't I?"
Now it's Gale's turn to be confused. Does she mean it? Or is she just messing with him? I'm guessing the later.
"You won't be going to the Capitol," says Gale coolly. His eyes land on small, circular pin that adorns her dress. Real gold. Beautifully crafted. It could keep a family in bread for months. "What can you have? Five entries? I had six when I just was twelve years old."
"That's not her fault," I say.
"No, it's no one's fault. Just the way it is," says Gale.
Madge's face has become close off. She puts the money in my hand for the berries. "Good luck, Katniss."
"You, too," I say, and then the door closes.
We walk toward the Seam in silence. I don't like that Gale took a dig at Madge, but's he's right, of course. The reaping system is unfair, with the poor getting the worst of it. You become eligible the day you turn twelve. That year, your name is entered once. At thirteen twice. And so, and so forth until the day you turn eighteen, the final year of eligibility, when your name goes into the pool seven time. That's true for every citizen in all twelve districts in entire country of Panem.
But here's the catch. Say you're poor and starving as we were. You can opt to add your name in more times in exchange for tesserae. Each tesserae is a meager year's supply of grain and oil for one person. You may do this for each of your family as well. So, at the age of twelve, I had my name in there four times. Once, because I had to, and three times for the tesserae for myself, Prim, and my mother. In fact, every year I have to do this. And the entries are cumulative. So, at the age sixteen, my name will be in the reaping twenty times. Gale, who is eighteen and has either been helping or single-handedly feeding a family of five for seven years, will have his name in forty-two times.
You can see why someone like Madge, who has never been at risk of needing tesserae, can set him off. The chance of her name being drawn is slim compared to those in the Seam. Not impossible, but slim. And even though the rules were set up by the Capitol, and not the districts, certainly not Madge's family, it's hard not to resent those don't have to sign up for tesserae.
Gale knows his anger is misdirected at Madge. On other days, deep in the woods, I've listened to him rant about how tesserae is just another tool to cause misery in the districts. A way to plant hatred between the starving workers of the Seam and those who can generally count on supper and thereby ensure we will never trust anyone. "It's to the Capitol's advantage to have us divide amongst ourselves," he might say if there were no other ears to hear but mine. If it wasn't reaping day. If a girl with a gold pin and no tesserae had not made what I'm sure what she thought was a harmless comment.
As we walk, I glance over at Gale's face, still smoldering under his stony expression. His rage seems pointless to me, although I never say so. It's not that I don't agree with him. I do. But what good is yelling about the Capitol in the middle of the woods? It doesn't change anything. It doesn't make things fair. It doesn't fill our stomachs. In fact, it scares off nearby game. I let him yell though. It's better in the woods than in the district.
Gale and I divide our spoils, leaving two fish, a couple of loaves of good bread, a quart of strawberries, salt, paraffin, and a bit of money for each
"See you in the square," I say.
"Wear something pretty," he says flatly.
At home, I find my mother and sister are ready to go. My mother wears a fine dress from her apothecary days. Prim is in her first reaping dress, a skirt and a ruffled blouse. It's a bit big on her, but my mother manage to get it to stay with pins. Even so, she's having trouble keeping the blouse tucked in back. A tub of warm water waits for me. I scrub off the dirt and sweat form the woods and even wash my hair. To my surprise, my mother has laid out one of her lovely dresses for me. A soft blue thing with matching shoes.
"Are you sure?" I ask. I'm trying to get past rejecting offers of help from her. For a while, I was so angry I wouldn't allow her to do anything for me. And this is something special. Her clothes from her past are very precious to her.
"Of course, let's put your hair up, too," she says. I let her towel-dry it and then braid it. I can hardly recognize myself in the cracked mirror leaning against the wall.
"You look beautiful," says Prim in a hushed voice.
"And nothing like myself," I day. I hug her, because I know these next few hours will be terrible for her. Her first reaping. She's about as safe as you can get, since she's only entered once. I wouldn't let her take out tesserae. But she's worried about me. That the unthinkable might happen.
I protect Prim in every way that I can, but I'm powerless against the reaping. The anguish I feel when she's in pain wells up in my chest and threatens to register on my face. I notice that her blouse has pulled out of her skirt in back again and I force myself to stay calm. "Tuck your tail in, little duck." I say, smoothing the blouse back into place.
Prim giggles and gives me a small. "Quack."
"Quack, yourself," I say, with a light laugh. The kind that only Prim can draw out of me. "Come on, let's eat," I say, and plant a quick kiss on the top of her head.
The fish and greens are already cooking in the stew, but that will be for supper. We decide to save the strawberries and the bakery bread for this evening's meal, to make it special we say. Instead we drink milk from prim's goat, Lady, and eat the rough bread from the tesserae grain, although no one has much of an appetite anyway.
At one o'clock, we head for the square. Attendance is mandatory, unless you're on death's door. This evening official will come around and check to see if this is the case. If not, you'll be imprisoned.
It's too bad, really, that the hold the reaping in the square—one of the few places in District 12 that can be pleasant. The square's surrounded by shops, and on public market days, especially if there's good weather, it feels like a holiday. But today, despite the bright banners hanging on the buildings, there's an air of grimness. The camera crews, perched like buzzards on rooftops, only add to the effect.
People file in silently and sign in. The reaping is a good opportunity for the Capitol to keep tabs on the population as well. Twelve- through eighteen-year olds are herded into roped areas marked off by ages, the oldest in the front, the young ones, like Prim, toward the back. Family members line up along the perimeter, holding tightly to one another's hands. But there are others, too, who have no one they love at stake, or who no longer care, who slip among the crowd, taking bets on the two kids name be drawn. Odds are given on their ages, whether they're Seam or merchant, if they will break down and weep. Most refuse dealing with the racketeers but carefully, carefully. These same people tend to be informers, and who hasn't broken the law? I could be shot on a daily basis for hunting, but the appetites of those in charge protect me. Not everyone can claim the same.
Anyway, Gale and I agree that if we had to choose between dying of hunger and a bullet in the head, the bullet would be much quicker.
The space gets tighter, and more claustrophobic as people arrive. The squares quite large, but not enough to hold District 12's population of eight thousand. Latecomers are directed to adjacent streets, where they can watch the event on screens as its televised live by the state.
I find myself standing in a clump of sixteens from the Seam. We all exchange terse nods then focus our attention the temporary makeshift stage that is set up in front of the Justice Building. It holds three chairs, a podium, and two glass balls, one for the boys and one for the girls. Twenty of them have Katniss Everdeen written on them in careful hand writing.
Two of the three chairs are filled with Madge's father, Mayor Undersee, who's a tall, balding man, and Effie Trinket, District 12 escort fresh from the Capitol with her scary white grin, pinkish hair, and spring green suit. They murmur to each other and then look with concern to the empty seat.
Just as the clock strikes two, the mayor steps up to the podium and begins to read. It's the same story every year. He tells the story of Panem, the country that rose from the ashes of a place that was once called North America. He lists the disasters, the droughts, the storms, the fires, the encroaching seas that swallowed up so much of the land, the brutal war for 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 was 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 for the Hunger Games are simple, as punishment for the uprising, each district 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 burning desert to a frozen waste land. Over a period of several weeks, the competitors must fight to the death. The last tribute standing wins.
Taking the kids from our districts, forcing them to kill one another while we watch—this is the Capitol's way of reminding us how totally we are at their mercy. How little a chance we would stand of surviving another rebellion. Whatever words they use, the real 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 as we did in District Thirteen."
What's humiliating as well as tortuous, the Capitol requires us to treat the Hunger Games as festivities, a sporting event pitting every districts against the others. The last tribute alive receives a life of ease at home, and their district will be showered with prizes, largely consisting of food. All year, the Capitol will show the winning district gifts of oil and grain and even delicacies like sugar while the rest of us battle starvation.
"It is both a time for repentance and a time for thanks," intones the mayor.
The he reads the list of past District 12 victors. In seventy-four years, we have had exactly two. Only one is still alive. Haymitch Abernathy, a paunchy, middle-aged man, who at this moment appears hollering something intelligible, staggers on the stage, and falls into the third chair. He's drunk. Very. The crowd responds with its token applause, but he's confused and tires to give Effie a big hug which she barely fends off.
The mayor looks distressed. Since all of this is being televised, right now District 12 is the laughingstock of all Panem, and he knows it. He quickly tries to pull the attention back to the reaping by introducing Effie Trinket.
Bright and bubbly as ever, Effie trots over to the podium and gives her signature, "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!" Her pink hair must be a wig because her curls have shifted off-center since her encounter with Haymitch. She goes on a bit about what an honor it is to be here, even though everyone knows she's aching to get bumped up to a better district where they have proper victors, not drunks who molest you in front of the entire nation.
Through the crowd, I spot Gale looking back at me with a ghost of a smile. As reapings go, this one has some entertainment value. But then I'm suddenly thinking of Gale and his forty-two names in that big glass ball and how the odds are not in his favor. Not compared to a lot of the boys. And maybe he's thinking the same thing about me because his face darkens and he turns away. "But there are still thousands of slips," I wish I could whisper to him.
It's time for the drawing. Effie says as she always does, "Ladies first!" And crosses to the glass bowl with the girl's names. She reaches in, and digs deep into the ball, and pulls out a slip of paper. The crowd draws in a collective breath and then you could hear a pin drop, and I'm feeling nauseous and so desperately hoping that it's not me, that it's not me, that it's not me!
Effie cross back over to the podium, smooths the slip of paper, and reads the name in a clear voice. And it's not me.
It's Primrose Everdeen.
A/N: I'm reposting this chapter to put it back into the Katniss' perspective. I didn't think this story would last as long as it did. That being said, thank you to all my current readers and readers who are just finding this story.
