貌似都很喜欢Peeta，但是他图好少啊(>﹏<)

最后补了一张芬尼克(╯3╰)

248'

I couldn’t go home. Because at home was my mother with her dead eyes and my little sister, with her hollow cheeks and cracked lips.

I couldn’t walk into that room with the smoky
fire from the damp branches I had scavenged at the edge of the woods after the coal had run out, my bands empty of any
hope.


I found myself stumbling along a muddy lane behind the shops that serve the wealthiest townspeople. The merchants
live above their businesses, so I was essentially in their backyards.

I remember the outlines of garden beds not yet planted for the spring, a goat or two in a pen, one sodden dog tied to a post, hunched defeated in the muck.

All forms of stealing are forbidden in District 12. Punishable by death. But it crossed my mind that there might be something in the trash bins, and those were fair game.

Perhaps a bone at the butcher’s or rotted vegetables at the grocer’s,
something no one but my family was desperate enough to
eat.

Unfortunately, the bins had just been emptied.
When I passed the baker’s, the smell of fresh bread was so
overwhelming I felt dizzy. The ovens were in the back, and a golden glow spilled out the open kitchen door.

I stood mesmerized by the heat and the luscious scent until the rain interfered, running its icy fingers down my back, forcing me back to life.

I lifted the lid to the baker’s trash bin and found it spotlessly, heartlessly bare.

Suddenly a voice was screaming at me and I looked up to see the baker’s wife, telling me to move on and did I want her to call the Peacekeepers and how sick she was of having those brats from the Seam pawing through her trash.

The words were ugly and I had no defense.

As I carefully replaced the lid and backed away, I noticed him, a boy with blond hair peering out from behind his mother’s back. I’d seen him at school.

He was in my year, but I didn’t know his name. He stuck with the
town kids, so how would I? His mother went back into the bakery, grumbling, but he must have been watching me as I made my way behind the pen that held their pig and leaned
against the far side of an old apple tree. The realization that I’d have nothing to take home had finally sunk in.

My knees buckled and I slid down the tree trunk to its roots. It was too
much. I was too sick and weak and tired, oh, so tired. Let them call the Peacekeepers and take us to the community home, I thought. Or better yet, let me die right here in the rain.

There was a clatter in the bakery and I heard the woman screaming again and the sound of a blow, and I vaguely wondered what was going on. Feet sloshed toward me through
the mud and I thought, It’s her. She’s coming to drive me away with a stick. But it wasn’t her. It was the boy.

In his arms, he carried two large loaves of bread that must have fallen into the fire because the crusts were scorched black.

His mother was yelling, “Feed it to the pig, you stupid creature! Why not? No one decent will buy burned bread!”

He began to tear off chunks from the burned parts and toss them into the trough, and the front bakery bell rung and the mother disappeared to help a customer.

303'

The boy never even glanced my way, but I was watching
him. Because of the bread, because of the red weal that stood out on his cheekbone. What had she hit him with?

My parents never hit us. I couldn’t even imagine it.

The boy took one look back to the bakery as if checking that the coast was clear, then, his attention back on the pig, he threw a loaf of bread in my direction.

The second quickly followed, and he sloshed back to the bakery, closing the kitchen door tightly
behind him.


I stared at the loaves in disbelief. They were fine, perfectreally, except for the burned areas. Did he mean for me to
have them? He must have.

Because there they were at my feet.


Before anyone could witness what had happened I shoved the loaves up under my shirt, wrapped the hunting jacket tightly
about me, and walked swiftly away.

The heat of the bread burned into my skin, but I clutched it tighter, clinging to life.


By the time I reached home, the loaves had cooled somewhat,but the insides were still warm. When I dropped them on the table, Prim’s hands reached to tear off a chunk, but I made her sit, forced my mother to join us at the table, and poured warm tea.

I scraped off the black stuff and sliced the bread.

We ate an entire loaf, slice by slice. It was good hearty bread, filled with raisins and nuts.

I put my clothes to dry at the fire, crawled into bed, and fell
into a dreamless sleep.

It didn’t occur to me until the next morning that the boy might have burned the bread on purpose.

Might have dropped the loaves into the flames, knowing it meant being punished, and then delivered them to me. But I dismissed this.

It must have been an accident. Why would he have done it? He didn’t even know me.

Still, just throwing me
the bread was an enormous kindness that would have surely
resulted in a beating if discovered. 1 couldn’t explain his actions.

We ate slices of bread for breakfast and headed to school.

It was as if spring had come overnight. Warm sweet air. Fluffy clouds.

At school, I passed the boy in the hall, his cheek had
swelled up and his eye had blackened.

He was with his friends and didn’t acknowledge me in any way.

But as I collected Prim and started for home that afternoon, I found him staring at me
from across the school yard.


Our eyes met for only a second,
then he turned his head away. I dropped my gaze, embarrassed,
and that’s when I saw it.

The first dandelion of the year.

A bell went off in my head. I thought of the hours spent in the woods with my father and I knew how we were going to survive.

To this day, I can never shake the connection between this boy, Peeta Mellark, and the bread that gave me hope, and the dandelion that reminded me that I was not doomed.

And more than once, I have turned in the school hallway and caught his
eyes trained on me, only to quickly flit away. I feel like I owe
him something, and I hate owing people.

Maybe if I had thanked him at some point, I’d be feeling less conflicted now.

I thought about it a couple of times, but the opportunity neverseemed to present itself. And now it never will.

Because we’re going to be thrown into an arena to fight to the death.

Exactlyhow am I supposed to work in a thank-you in there?

Somehow it just won’t seem sincere if I’m trying to slit his throat.

The mayor finishes the dreary Treaty of Treason and motions for Peeta and me to shake hands.

His are as solid and warm as those loaves of bread.

Peeta looks me right in the eye
and gives my hand what I think is meant to be a reassuring squeeze. Maybe it’s just a nervous spasm.（女主简直多疑，就没想过人家喜欢你，才紧张的吗？(｡･ω･｡) ）

We turn back to face the crowd as the anthem of Panem plays. Oh, well, I think. There will be twenty-four of us.

Odds are someone else will kill him before I do.

Of course, the odds have not been very dependable of late.

其实觉得芬尼克是最帅的，→_→后面口胡了点(>﹏<)