The Hunger Games (Peeta's Point of View)

Chapter Eight

I punch the elevator button and stumble out when I reach the twelfth floor. I don’t know why I’m feeling angry. I was never a contender in these Games. Never. All the other tributes have some sort of skill: the Careers are practically trained since birth; the tributes from District 7 are probably skilled with axes because of the many trees to be felled; the District 11 tributes have an advantage because they can climb trees; even Katniss can hunt and climb, and she’s from District 12! What can I do? Frost cakes? Maybe I’m angrier with the Gamemakers for ignoring me! Just because I’m one of the last tributes doesn’t mean they can ignore me! It’s my life on the line, here!

            “Peeta!” I turn to see Portia poking her head round the sitting room door. Of course! I was supposed to meet them in the siting room afterwards! “Peeta,” she repeats as I approach her. “You’ve got two hours to spend as you like until dinner. Okay?” This time she wears a black leather jacket and maroon leggings, with silver eyeliner that contrasts attractively against her skin. Quite a toned-down outfit for Capitol people.

            “Okay,” I confirm. She gives me a friendly smile. I contemplate that smile as I return to my room. So friendly it was almost... Reassuring. Did she hear? No, she couldn’t have heard everything at least twelve floors up. Could she tell I was upset, then? Maybe. I’m glad Portia’s my stylist. She doesn’t make us wear anything extreme, no matter what she wears herself, and she tries to cheer you up. District 3’s costumes suggest they have an outrageous stylist!

            I don’t know what do when I get to my room. At first, I just sit in the bed, staring into space and thinking of nothing. Then I have a shower to pass the time and by the time I get changed I still have an hour and a half left. There isn’t much to do here. There are a hundred and one gadgets with no actual purpose and a menu with every dish you can think of, but not much to do. Have they deliberately focused on the things we wouldn’t ever be able to afford? Is this just another way for the Capitol to taunt you? To flaunt the things you’d never dream of getting unless you win; using the lack of food back home and the abundance of food here against you?

            Suddenly I hear shouts and cries outside. Katniss! I open the door and look out but all I see is her door being slammed and bolted. What has happened to make her act like this? Though she has been acting strangely, recently. Maybe the Gamemakers took it out on her! The thought that my impulsiveness has ruined Katniss’ chances makes me feel even worse about myself. But then I remember the Gamemakers can’t tell a tribute what went on in another tribute’s training session. Did the Gamemakers provoke her too? I take comfort in the fact I wasn’t to only one to react to the Gamemaker’s behaviour.

            I turn around and see my favourite colour streaming through the window: sunset orange. I rush to the window so I don’t miss it. The sunset is beautiful here, brighter, stronger, like so many things here in the Capitol. There’s an end table by the bed so I search through the drawers, managing to produce a notepad and pens, then I head up to the roof.

            From the roof, it looks as if the whole Capitol is bathed in the sunset’s orange glow. The multi-coloured buildings almost shimmer in the sun’s rays. I draw the sunset in bold pen and colour with the most vibrant of oranges, yet knowing I’ll never be able to capture the vivid colours I see in front of me. When it’s done I finish it with my signature, something I’ve never been familiar with even though I’ve been signing for the batches of flour since I was eligible for the Hunger Games. It is long and loopy and I don’t recognise it. Is this the start of my decline; my signature not even recognisable in the tangle of the Capitol? Will I not be able to recognise myself in the midst of the Games? Will I lose my identity in the Games? I want to remain myself and not succumb to the Capitol’s plan- to try to win the Games at any cost; prove I’m not a pawn of the Capitol. But is it inevitable? To change once you’re in the arena? To change when your next breath could be your last?