The Hunger Games (Peeta's Point of View)

Chapter Eighteen

The first thing I realise when I wake up is that it's cold. 

        Why? Why is it so...

        There's a tingling in my extremities that is gradually worsening and I strongly suspect the cold's to blame if I slept, uncovered, all night. I curse my stupidity. Exposing your body to cold temperatures for hours puts your health at risk! No wonder my whole body feels like it's been through a meat grinder!

        Breaking the spell that holds my body, I stretch to explore my surroundings. Through the stinging in the tips, my fingers feel plants surrounding me- plants? Perplexed, I sit up (it takes a few attempts as my hands keep sinking into the mud but eventually I make it). Why have I woken up here?

        I look around, hoping to make some sense of the situation.  I can see reeds and rocks and a stream-

        And then it all comes crashing back. The events of the previous night return all at once, mentally hitting me like a bullet. I can remember everything, and it's not good.

               All of Panem witnessed that embarrassing episode. And possibly some other tributes, too; if I'd screamed any louder maybe my family back in 12 would have heard. My head is addled and confused and I can't make up my mind about anything. Half of me is wallowing in self-pity- I wasn't in my right mind last night. And I'm still not, I think, ruefully. That outburst was fuelled by hunger, thirst, pain and fatigue- and I'm at their mercy even now.

        The other part of me hates myself. I got myself in this mess and I'll have to get myself out of it, and if I can't, so be it. I'm the one who didn't stick to the plan, so why should Haymitch fulfill his side of the bargain? If I had just listened to him, who's to say all of this would have happened? Katniss is stubborn but I'll bet even she fled to find some source of water.

         I groan, letting all the optimism flush out of me with my breath. I always knew I had no chance but I didn't want to go down like this. What dignity can I cling on to? (I don't care much for dignity but it's all I have- had.) All I can hope for is a silver parachute from Haymitch, and what a minute sliver of hope that is. I've way since established that, after last night's pathetic performance, I can wave the idea of receiving a gift goodbye. I don't know what I was thinking but collapsing in front of the whole world has not endeared me in the slightest. Even if some sympathetic sponsors do take pity on me, I doubt Haymitch will bother. I disobeyed him and ruined everything. If he didn't send me something when I saved Katniss then he won't now.

        And do I blame him? I admitted that I was going to perish here. So I might as well do just that.

        Leave, I urge myself, leave this place and never come back. I get up and ignore the heavy pain that ensues. I want to prove to myself that I can do this; I can stay alive for a bit longer. Besides, the pain's all I deserve. Standing upright, I can now see that I'm in an alcove, the stream directly in front of me. I make my way across so I'm standing in its waters. I follow the stream as it progresses, even as it angles upwards, until the gap through which it flows is opposite me. 

        If I'm going to go in there, it'll be a tight squeeze: it looks as if I can only move sideways-on. Despite this impending difficulty, I realise that the hiding place will be easy to defend. Just one person can fit through the gap at a time and they'll be at a massive disadvantage if they can't brandish their weapons, let alone use them. In fact, it's highly unlikely someone would suspect that a boy with such a crippling injury would be capable of clambering over rocks and squeezing through boulders.