Creative Writing: Peeta Mellark Reaping's Day

Deandre Viveros

Peeta Mellark Reaping’s Day

The only reason I’m waking up today is for the Reaping. Otherwise, I would have loved to sleep for an eternity away from my mother. You’d think a baker in District Twelve would have an easier life than those in the rundown Seam, but I don’t. Try living with a family who doesn’t care for your existence and with a mother who isn’t afraid to beat you if you burn some bread. Right now it’s the crack of dawn. That means it’s time to prepare all of the ovens and baking ingredients. I start by grabbing my apron. It’s filthy, worn out from use and no washing. I look in the mirror to tie the back. The only difference between my hygiene and the apron’s is I can feel pain. The apron watches life go by, just existing.
It’s a pathetic amount that does nothing. My hands are still dirty and my fingernails are still caked with grime. No one would ever love me for being Peeta. When I die, I’m sure my gravestone will just read “Peeta Mellark: Baker.” That’s right; I’m no one’s son, brother or husband. Just a nobody who’ll be stuck in this daily life on repeat. As I grab a couple bags of flour, I look out the window for a ray of sun that might give me hope. My eyes follow the most prominent beam I can see and instead of it falling on the ground like the rest, this one hits a face. Her face. The face that belongs to Katniss Everdeen. I see her from a distance since she’s a Seam girl and I’m not, but I’d know her