PEETA

I had watched the young little huntress walk out the front door and hurry across town before anyone saw her. A smirk spread across my face fast and I walked towards the oven to take out the loaves of bread.

It was funny that I had saved her two times and still didn't know her name. But now I know. Katniss Everdeen. No wonder my mother didn't like the girl. I know Katniss hasn't forgotten, and neither does he. That day when I saved her from the monster of a hand that fed her. Held her close and took her home. When she came back to me. To me.. I saved her from herself. She owed me her life.

I remember that night clearly. Lord, what a night. I laugh to myself.

The front door opens, and I see Haymitch coming in. Haymitch Abernathy walks slowly, now old with constant back pain, paying back for all these years he has been leaning over bowls of batter. Not only his wife and daughter take a lot out of him. His wife's roots were from the Capitol. They go whenever they get the chance. She does enjoy the finer things. And Haymitch worked to give her the life she wanted. Along with being a father to an only child. He smiles big, wrinkled eyes showing nothing but happiness even below the booze stained drunkenness in his eyes and I can't help but smile back, but not fully.

"Haymitch, you should be resting," Peeta says, glancing at the clock over the front door. It stands six-thirty.

"Oh, you know how it is, Peeta. I wake up early. Old habits die hard." Peeta nods, watching the old man walk towards the one chair in the corner that was placed there especially for him.

Before my father passed, I didn't seem to be going anywhere at 16. My father convinced my mother that it was time to move out and give the bakery to their youngest son, together with the apartment over it. My father had become old and was declining in health. He couldn't put up with the kneading and the heat anymore. Of course, my mother had made a fuss out of it. She refused to move and even worse, refused to give me the bakery. I still didn't own the bakery because of my mother who just liked to see me suffer. And because of my too nice/too afraid father that didn't dare to say anything otherwise. Then he passed on. He had been like that my whole childhood. Even when receiving beatings like a stray dog, he didn't dare to open his mouth. What would've changed now? He is beyond the grave.

Haymitch knew my father from school. They were good friends throughout my childhood. We went over to their house on many occasions for dinner. He helped my father with his will when he knew he was declining in health. He planned his funeral and held the service. He has always looked out for me. The morning's I'd come in with bruises and a swollen shut. He was always there. And will always be there.

Before the day was over, my mother came into the bakery. She invited me to dinner. The bakery is everything I have. I don't have anything else. And I know what my mother is capable of doing. I know that very well. She isn't afraid to destroy me. But I am. I love my bakery. I can't lose it and I don't want to anger her.

I was the last one to arrive at the house, and I gave my brothers a hug each when greeting them in the kitchen. Nothing more. Not a word said. Our mother stood with her back towards us, working over the pot of stew and stirring it without even glancing at me. It's too quiet. Too tense. It's like we were in the enemy's territory and accepted our death, with awkward glances and often clearing our throats. We sit down. I am sitting at the edge of the table with both my hands on my knees. Devan starts to talk after a moment, about how he and his wife want to increase their family and Rye congratulates him with a clap on his back. Soon the only Mellark men get into a calm conversation about Devan's future plans until Mrs. Mellark slams the stew on the table, as someone forced her to cook and invite her sons. And the conversation dies as fast as it's born.

We eat in silence, my eyes never leaving my plate since my mother sits right in front of me. It's odd how I still hate the sight of my mother's hateful glare even after all these years. It still affects me.

"So," Rye starts with a smirk, dragging his 'o' while putting down his fork. "Rose and I talked about moving. Y'know, it's hard when your parents-in-law are sleeping right under us." Devan snorts. I don't dare to see my mother's reaction. It was always Rye's big mouth that got himself in trouble with their mother. Devan's only problem was the whole baking. He wasn't good at it. At all. Often burning trays of bread. Even then, she barely hit him since he was more like their mother than any of the boys. And me? Well, I just existed. That was enough. "We thought maybe closer to the bakery, so we can meet you more often." I lift my head, realizing that my brother is talking to me.

"Yeah, you never leave that bakery anymore Peeta." Devan adds with a soft smile. "You work way too hard. Ever since you took over-" A sudden snort interrupts the eldest brother, making all of us boys turn our heads towards our mother, who looked at Devan with nothing but disgust.

"Sweetheart, you talk to him like he owns the bakery."

"Well, mother... he does-"

"Not until I say he does. I know very well that everything that boy touches gets destroyed." she spits. "Nothing but a disgrace. From the day he was born. Why shouldn't I give the bakery to Graham, huh? He visits his parents often, sends us money and respects us. You? You don't even give us a penny."

"At least you, Devan, can keep the name 'Mellark' alive and give the bakery to his children after himself. You, you stupid boy, aren't even married! And why would someone want to marry a boy like you, who can't even pay us a dime? You're a disgrace, Peeta Mellark! A shame to this family."

It's quiet. Rye looks down at his plate with nothing to say, Devan glances at me with sadness and pity. I kept looking at the women who birthed me with a stare that contained nothing. Not a glimpse of sadness, fear or even anger. Just a gaze, black like a void that my mother answers back with only hate.

I wanted to laugh, I realized as I stood up. I really want to laugh at the whole situation. But instead, I leave the kitchen, feeling their stares on me as I walk to the back door with shaky steps until I reach the doorknob and open it. Sitting down on the ground beside the door, I take out a cigarette from my back pocket as I start to smirk, mouth in a wide grin as I take the white stick between my lips. Giggles filling the air as I looked up at the orange sky that waved goodbye to the sun for today. I lit up the cigarette with shaky hands, inhaling the smoke to help me relax. It doesn't, so I look at it and my hands shake with anger. That the fucking stick of smoke doesn't do anything like it's supposed to. It doesn't fucking work! So I crush it into my arm and feel the burning into my skin so satisfyingly good as I inhale deeply, feeling my body calm down somehow. I remember how I used to cry when receiving beatings, the pain so unbearable. I don't feel any of that anymore.

How strange.

I throw the cigarette away fast and cover the black burned skin under my sleeve. I close my eyes with my hands over them as I try to control my laughs.

When I do, I exhale and feel the spring wind hit me softly, reminding me that one day I would hurt my mother dearly. That one day she will pay for all my pain. Physically wasn't enough. It helps me relax a little when I think about it.

I went back inside again. And my family pretends like the abuse I go through daily ever since I was a child, never really happens. Rye puts desert in front of me, Devan talks about his future children's names and mother agrees with him on some of the names. No one looks at me. Like it never fucking happened.

I guesses that it's easier for them to cope that way