Chapter 2 Chapter 2 Hope

Once, I fell asleep and fell on my back from a tree ten feet high, while holding my breath waiting for prey to pass by.That fall seemed to squeeze every trace of air in my lungs out of my body. I struggled desperately, exhale, inhale, exhale, inhale... And at this moment, this is exactly how I feel, I try to remember how to breathe, I can't speak, the name echoes in my head, I am completely stunned, my body goes limp, I feel dizzy, and at this moment A boy from the "crack zone" quickly supported me. There must be a mistake somewhere, it's impossible.Prim's name was on a thousand slips of paper!The odds of her being drawn are so slim that I don't even have to worry about it.Haven't I done everything for her?I'm on food stamps and I don't want the same thing to happen to her?A note, one note out of thousands.The chances of her being drawn are slim.But it didn't work.

In the distance, there were murmurs of discontent in the crowd, as usual, everyone thought it was unfair for a twelve-year-old to be drawn.That's when I saw Prim walking past me, with no blood on her face, her clenched fists hanging at her sides, her body stiff and her walking difficult, she walked towards the stage.I saw her blouse loose again, hanging out of her skirt like a ducktail.It was this inconspicuous detail that brought me back to my senses. "Prim!" I yelled in a husky voice, my arms and legs now at my command. "Prim!" There was no need to push through the crowd, the other kids had already made way for me, leading to the stage.Just as Prim was about to take the stage, I caught up to her and pushed her behind me with a flick of my arm.

"I want to volunteer!" I gasped, "I volunteer to be a 'tribute'!" There was some confusion on stage.District 12 had no volunteers for decades, and the rule was almost forgotten.As a rule, if a child, whether boy or girl, is drawn, another candidate boy or girl can take his or her place.In other districts, it is an honor to be selected at the Harvest Festival ceremony, and many people are willing to risk their lives for it. The procedure of voluntary participation is very complicated.But in the twelfth district, "tribute" and "corpse" are almost synonymous, and volunteers have disappeared because of this.

"Great!" Effie Trinket said, "But I think it's a little problem that after introducing the winners, there are volunteers. But if there are volunteers, then we... um... ..." Her voice stopped, and she was not sure about it. "Does it matter?" said the mayor.He looked at me with a pained expression on his face.He doesn't know me very well, perhaps only vaguely.I am the girl selling strawberries, and his daughter may have mentioned me occasionally.The girl appeared to him five years ago, snuggled up with her mum and sister, and he introduced the eldest daughter of the family and presented her with a bravery medal, which was awarded to her Dad - the man who was killed in the mine disaster.Did he remember this?

"Is there a problem?" he asked harshly again. "Let her come forward." Prim yelled hysterically behind me.She held me in her thin arms like pincers, "No, Katniss! No, you can't go!" "Prime, let me go," I snapped.It made me so sad that she did this and I didn't want to cry.Everyone will see my tears on the night of the ceremony, and I will be identified as an easy target, showing the frailty of my humanity, and I will not allow that gratification to anyone. "open!" I felt someone pulling her from behind.I looked back and Gale had lifted her up and she was still waving her arms. "Go ahead, Catnip," he said, trying not to let his voice tremble.He carried Prim to Mom, and I took the opportunity to climb up the table.

"Ah, that's awesome!" exclaimed Effie Trinket, "It's the spirit of The Hunger Games!" She was delighted that something special was finally happening in one district. "What's your name?" I hold back my nervousness. "Katniss Everdeen," I said. "That girl must be your sister. Don't want her to take all the credit, right? Come on, folks, let's give our latest 'tribute' the biggest round of applause!" Effie Trinket wrote with Said the excited voice. Out of respect for the eternal honor of District 12, no one applauded, not even the most indifferent gamblers.Maybe they met me on the black market, maybe they knew my dad, maybe they met Pale, the girl everyone loved.At this moment, there was no applause, and I just stood there motionless; people expressed their inner discontent in the most daring way.The audience was silent.This shows that they do not agree and do not condone what the Capitol did.It's all wrong.

Then something unexpected happened.At least I didn't think of it, because I think the 12th district is a place that won't give me love.But from the moment I stepped on the stage, something changed and I became someone to be cherished.It started with one person, then another, and finally almost all of them raised their left hands, they put their middle three fingers to their lips, and then they pointed at me.This is an old gesture in our district, and it is rarely used anymore, only occasionally seen at funerals.It means gratitude, it means reverence, it means saying goodbye to loved ones.

This time I was about to cry, but luckily Haymitch stumbled over and congratulated me. "Look, look how good she is!" he yelled, putting his arm around mine, and he was quite a size. "I like her!" His mouth was full of alcohol, it seemed that he hadn't showered for a long time, and his body smelled bad. "She is too..." He couldn't think of the right words for a while, "You have the guts." He said exaggeratedly, "She is stronger than you!" He let go of me and rushed to the front desk, pointing at a camera and yelling, "She's better than you!"

Is he addressing the audience, or is he taunting the Capitol while drunk?I will never know.Just when he was about to open his mouth to speak again, he fell headfirst off the stage and fell unconscious. He's really disgusting, but I should also be grateful to him.Every camera excitedly focused on him, and I just saved myself from talking in my hoarse little voice, and took the opportunity to calm down.I put my hands behind my back and looked into the distance.I saw the hill I climbed with Gail this morning.All of a sudden, I felt a desire...to get out of here...to the mountains...but, I knew I was right not to run, otherwise who would volunteer for Prim?

Haymitch was whisked away on a stretcher, and Effie Trinket spun the glass ball again. "What an exciting day this is!" she said tenderly while arranging her wig, which was obviously crooked to the right, "but the more exciting moment has come, our male 'tribute' is about to be produced!" Apparently to keep her loose wig in place, she rests one hand on her hair while the other reaches into the glass ball that holds the boys list.She took out the first note she found and walked quickly back to the podium to read the names, and I didn't even have time to pray for Gail.

"Peeta Mylark." Peeta Mylark! "Oh no," I thought, "not him." I didn't speak to him, but I knew the name, Peeta Mylark. No, the odds are against me today. He came up on stage and I looked at him.He was of medium build, stocky and strong, with light-blond hair hanging down his forehead.The shock of the moment was still written on his face, and he was trying his best to keep calm, but his blue eyes were still full of panic, which I often saw when I was hunting.He pretended to be calm, walked up to the stage, and stood in his place. Effie Trinket asked if there were volunteers, but no one came forward. He has two older brothers, I know, I've seen them in the bakery, but one of them is also well past volunteer age, and the other is reluctant.This is usually the case.Most sacrifices for their families in Harvest rituals end here.I am an exception. The mayor started to read the long and tedious Rebel Treaty - it was a requirement, but I didn't catch a word of it. "Why was he chosen?" I thought.I tried to convince myself it was okay.Peeta Mylark and I weren't friends, not even neighbors.We haven't spoken, the real contact was a few years ago.He may have forgotten, but I haven't, and I know I never will... That was when we were having the hardest time, Dad died in a mine disaster three months earlier, in January, the coldest month I've ever lived.The numbness of losing him had passed, replaced by constant surges of pain that hit me with redoubled force and often made me cry uncontrollably. "Where are you?" My heart was crying, "Where have you been?" However, I never got an answer. The district gave us a small amount of money as compensation for his death, enough for us to spend a month.During this month, we have been worrying about when my mother will go out to find a job, but she doesn't do anything, she just sits in a chair all day, curled up on the bed under a blanket most of the time, staring blankly into the distance.Sometimes, she would move as if she was about to do something urgent, but she would eventually fall back into her original state.No matter how much Prim begged, she couldn't move her. I was terrified, I thought Mom had been imprisoned in a dark world of sorrow, and all I knew at the time was that I had lost not only Dad, but Mom too.I was eleven years old and Prim was seven, and I was carrying the burden of the family, and I had no choice.I bought food from the market and made it as good as I could, and I tried my best to make myself and Prim look good, because if anyone knew that Mom couldn't take care of us anymore, someone in the district would take care of us. We took her away and sent her to a community welfare home. I often see children from orphanages at school.Their pain and sorrow, the marks of angry palms on their faces, their hunched bodies in despair, all these are deeply imprinted in my mind.I would never allow this to happen to Prim. Prim is so petite and cute, whenever I cry, she will cry for no reason; she always combs and braids my mother's hair before we go to school; she often cleans my father's hair. Hu Jing, because he hates the dust flying in the "crack zone".But in the orphanage, she would be trampled to death like a bug.So no matter how difficult the family is, I still keep the secret. The money was running out and we were starving to death.There is no other way, I said to myself that as long as I can last until May, as long as I am twelve years old on May 8th, I can get food stamps, get precious grains and oils, and feed us own up.It's just that we're still a few weeks away from May 8th, and we're sure to be starving to death by then. Starvation is commonplace in District 12.Who hasn't seen those starving people?Elderly people who can't work, children with many sisters who can't support them, people injured in mines, they are forced to live on the streets.I don't know when, sitting against the wall, my body is already stiff, or lying on the "pasture" to die.There was often the sound of wailing.Those vigilantes would come to collect the bodies, and they lied that these people had the flu, or an infection, or pneumonia.Hunger will never be an official cause of death, but that fools no one. I met Peeta Mylark one rainy, bitingly cold afternoon when I went to the public market to trade some of Prim's battered baby clothes for something to eat, but no one cared for my stuff.Although I had been to the mines with my father a few times before, it was still scary to be alone in this rocky, wild and rugged place.I was wearing my father's hunting jacket, which was completely wet from the rain, and I felt cold to the bone.For three days, we drank only hot water and ate some cold, dry mint leaves that I found in the corner of the cupboard.When the market closed, I was shivering from the cold, and my clothes and parcels fell in the mud.I didn't dare to pick it up, for fear that if I fell to the ground, I wouldn't be able to get up again.Besides, no one wanted those clothes anyway. I can't go home, go back to face my mother's staring eyes and my sister's sunken cheeks and dry lips; We can only use some wet firewood from the edge of the forest.I am completely hopeless! I was walking alone in the mud behind the store.These stores sell to the richest people in town, and the merchants live upstairs, and I literally walk in their back yards.I remember the gardens were unplanted for spring, a sheep or two were penned, and a dripping dog was hunched over and tied to a post. Any act of stealing is prohibited in the 12th district, and the thief will be executed.It just crossed my mind that maybe I could find something to eat in the trash, and nobody cares.Maybe find some leftover bones at the butcher, or some rotten vegetables at the grocery store, things no one would eat, but my family is so hungry they can.As luck would have it, the trash can has just been emptied. As I passed the bakery, the tempting aroma of freshly baked bread made me dizzy.The oven is in the backyard, and the golden flames exude a strong warmth, pouring out of the open kitchen door, a warm current and the smell of bread passing by, I seem to be hypnotized, dazed; but the cold wet rain Like cold fingers, it hit me in the face, forcing me to regain consciousness.I lifted the lid of the trash can, it was empty, it was heartless. Suddenly I heard a voice screaming at me, I looked up and saw the baker's wife yelling at me, telling me to get out of here or call the security police, and she said she saw "the seam" It made her sick to see the feral children picking up her trash can.These foul words beat me one after another, but I was powerless to resist.I stepped back as I carefully put the lid on the trash can, and that's when I saw him, a little blond-haired boy poking his head out from behind his mother and looking at me.I met him at school, he was in my grade, but I don't know his name.He often hangs out with foreign kids in the city, so how could I know his name?At this time, his mother came back to the bakery, still muttering.I walked towards the back of his pigsty, went under an old apple tree on the other side of the pigsty, and leaned weakly on the trunk, his gaze never leaving me.When I thought of returning empty-handed, I couldn't hold on any longer, my knees were sore, and I collapsed under the tree.I can't take it anymore, I'm too tired, too weak, too sick. "Let them call the security police and send me to an orphanage," I thought, "or let me die here, in the rain." At this time, there was a lot of noise in the bakery. I heard the woman screaming again, and faintly heard beating and scolding. I was wondering what happened, but I heard someone walking towards me from the mud.I thought to myself, "It must be her, and she's going to drive me away with a stick." But it wasn't she who came, it was the boy, with two big loaves of bread in his arms, which must have fallen into the fire , the outer skin was burnt black. His mother was still yelling, "Feed it to the pigs, you idiot, no respectable customer would buy this burnt bread!" He began tearing off large chunks of burnt bread and throwing them into the pig trough.The bell on the front door of the bakery rang, and his mother rushed to meet the customers. The boy never looked my way again, but I was staring at him because of the bread in his hand and the bruise on his face.What did she hit him with? My parents never hit me, I can't even imagine them hitting me.The boy glanced again at the bakery, as if to check for occupants, his attention returned to the pig, and he threw a large loaf of bread in my direction, followed quickly by another, his The movement is very quick.After that, he ran back to the bakery with heavy feet and shallow feet, and closed the kitchen door behind him. I looked at the bread and couldn't believe my eyes.This bread is so good, except for being a bit burnt, it was perfect.Did he ask me to take it?must be.The bread was thrown at my feet.Before no one saw me, I quickly stuffed the bread into my clothes, wrapped the clothes around my body vigorously, and walked away quickly.The heat of the bread scalded my skin, and I wrapped myself tighter, holding this lifeblood tightly in my arms. When I got home, the bread was a little cold, but it was still warm inside.I put the bread on the table, and Prim reached up to tear a piece off.But I told her to sit down and wait for mom to come along.I poured hot tea, scraped off the burnt spots, and sliced ​​the bread.Slice by slice, we ate the whole loaf.This bread is so delicious, filled with raisins and nuts. I took off my clothes and dried them slowly by the fire, crawled into bed, and fell into a sweet dream.The next day, when I thought about it, it occurred to me that maybe the boy had burned the bread on purpose.Knowing that he would be punished, he dropped the bread into the fire and gave it to me.But I think it might be wrong to think so.The bread should have fallen into the fire by accident, why would he do that?He doesn't even know me. But even so, it was a good intention to give me bread, and I would definitely be beaten if I was found out.I can't explain his behavior. We ate some bread and went to school.Spring seems to have arrived overnight.Warm wind, white clouds.In the school hall, I passed the boy. His face was swollen and his eye sockets were black.He was with his friends and didn't notice me.But in the afternoon when I picked up Prim to go home, I saw him looking at me from across the playground.Our eyes meet for a second before he looks away quickly.I also lowered my eyes in embarrassment.At that moment, I saw the first dandelions of spring.My mind was racing, thinking of the time I spent in the woods with my dad, and suddenly I had an idea of ​​a good way to keep us alive. To this day, I cannot forget how grateful I am for this boy.Peeta Mylark, who gave us bread and hope; Dandelion, who reminded us that we are not dead yet.In the corridors of the school, I saw him more than once, and our eyes crossed only briefly.I feel like I owe him something, and I don't like being owed anything.If I'd thanked him somehow, I wouldn't be so conflicted now.I did think about it once or twice, but the opportunity never came up.And now, I have no chance.We are about to be thrown into the arena to fight to the death.How do I thank him in that place?Anyway, cutting his throat and being honest are opposites. The Mayor's dull speech finally came to an end, and he motioned for me to shake hands with Peeta.His hands were strong and warm, like the bread.He looked me straight in the eye and took my hand.His grip was tight, which to me might indicate firmness, but maybe it was just a nervous twitch.Then we turned to face the audience, and the Panem national anthem was played. "Well," I thought, "twenty-four of us. Probably someone else killed him before I killed him." Of course, this is only a possibility.The odds are not very reliable either.