My name is Peeta Mellark

*For Creative Writing In Class* My name is Peeta Mellark. . . My name is Peter Mellark. . . I come from district 12. I survived The Hunger Games, and the Quarter Quell. I have been captured by the capital. My one thought? . . . Save Katniss. **Thanks to Jade. P for the cover! **

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2. Day 1

"Get up!" the guard yelled from outside the hatch. He swung it open just fast enough to catch me off guard and knock me down. 

"Aw, don't scare him Shavor. We want him in good shape for President Snow." said an unfamiliar voice. The strange, fat man named Shavor stopped kicking, but the pain didn't stop. I couldn't hold it in. Not much longer. I let it out.

"Ha! Ha, ha ha ha!" my scream of agony made the cruel guards rumble with the ambition to laugh at my lingering pain apparently. The sounds of laughter bounced off the walls. Anger filled inside me, and it covered the pain. 

"Where's Katniss, bread boy? Did she not like her toast burnt?" Shavor mocked. That was it. The match that lit my flame. I got up, nostrils flaring. Leaping up, I punched him in the nose. My stomach objected to my soon-to-be-suicidal-act, but I did it over and over. I could see him withering to the ground, but my world blacked out before I could see any more.

 

[...]

 

I woke in the middle of my cell, still withering in pain just as the man had left me. I kept my eyes shut, hoping they would just think I was still unconscious and leave me there, but my unsteady breathing must have given me away. Shavor nearly broke my rib cage with the butt of his club, and dragged me up. I couldn't see out of one eye, and my leg was bent weird. Blood trickled down my forehead as he hit me with the butt of the club again. 

I wanted him to just leave me there to die. One last problem for Snow. But then I thought of her again.. Katniss. That would be one more problem for her. To loose me. At first I thought that was a little selfish to think of it that way, but then I thought of it the same way around. I needed her, she needed me. I got up on my own, little by little, very slowly. I made it clear I was in pain when I groaned in pain as the hatch slammed on my foot, but Shavor just grunted. Too bad the other man wasn't here to take me to President Snow himself.

Shavor seemed to be in a hurry. He didn't stop to glare at the other prisoners, or make the other guards in the building go do his dirty work. And he was certainly faster than I would imagine someone of his size to be. His thick feet seemed to leave a slight muddy print on the floor. I looked a little closer, and I saw something too predictable for this man. A coat of a red tint in the brown. Blood. 

Oh, too soon the door flung open, and once again I was thrown to the floor like a soft feather, waiting to hit the ground. This feather must have been pretty heavy, because when I hit the ground, a large thump echoed off the walls.

When I looked up again, Snow looked angry, but he wasn't glaring at me. He got up from his white silk chair and stormed off, grabbing Shavor by the collar of his white suit.

Apparently the conversation could only go one way with Snow, because Shavor came out with a bleeding arm and a black eye. When he saw me staring, he glared, but just stood there instead of coming to beat me to death. But, technically, he had already done that several times and I wasn't dead. My mental and physical health must have been in better shape than I had thought.

"Let's go, bread boy." Shavor muttered, and without touching me, guided me out the door. Without making a single sound, he led me to the door and then stopped, blocking my path.

"Ask for some medicine for your wounds." he said. Shavor then sighed and walked back down the hallway, leaving a trail of bloody mud in his place.

 

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