I sit out the back in the kitchen of the bakery, absentmindedly continuing to frost the cake I've been working on for the past few hours. I've been getting really good at frosting now, father beams with pride all the time and tells me that I'm taking after him more and more everyday. For the moment, I do just a few cakes occasionally, but father says that someday soon I will be doing them all. Mother on the other hand constantly scolds my work, picking out every single tiny imperfection that to anyone else would be seen as nothing. Discards of cakes that I've been working on for long, tiresome amounts of time only to have father try and calm her discouragement. After all, I'm only just a twelve year old boy, she can't expect wonders.

The steady warmth of the oven fires across the room warms my frosty fingers perfectly caused from the open kitchen door. Even though it's freezing, mid winter and torrential rain just outside, with out it open the small room would be unbearably hot. Their soft glow illuminates the dim room slightly. The room is quiet and peaceful which allows me to focus on the work in front of me. Only the soft crackle of the fires and the rhythmic drumming of the rain on the roof flows into my ears until suddenly I hear the swinging door creak disapprovingly as mother barges out the back to check on some bread that has been resting over the ovens' heat for a while now. I'm just thinking I might get away with her not acknowledging me, just leaving me alone and not criticising my every move, when it starts.
She groans. "Oh Peeta, I don't understand why you even bother with the cakes let alone just simply baking bread. Your useless at all of it! A disgrace to the Mellark family name." She spits coming uncomfortably close to my face, her face and voice full of disappointment.

I grit my teeth and just continue with my frosting. There are plenty of whitty, smart comebacks I could give, but I won't, this is not a joking matter and mother is never one to joke anyway. Answering back will only result in another beating. I have learnt this over the years. Her words hurt, but at least they aren't as confronting as her beatings. I know that she means what she says, she always does, even though it isn't true. I know very well that my cake decorating skills are phenomenal and I can bake loaves of bread just as good as her. But it really does hurt hearing words like this constantly tumble from my own mother's mouth, relentless and unforgiving. Often accompanied by a beating of some kind. If I'm lucky it's just her empty hand but most of the time it's what ever is in her hand that gets me. It makes me feel awful, so unloved. I never get any compliments from her. She is nothing like this with my brothers, it's only because I was the unexpected one. Father loves me though, if it wasn't for him I don't know what I would do. He keeps me grounded, I want to be just like him and know his ways and views on life, his cunning sense of humour.

Mother huffs exasperatedly after waiting for me to snap and starts to cross back over to the baking bread. But suddenly she stops in her tracks, I here her pause for a second. I flinch expecting a slap across the back of the head but it doesn't come. Instead I hear her stomp over to the open door and outside onto the porch. Confused as to what she could be doing out there in this weather I go to follow her curiously. But then I hear her shriek and I hesitate.
"What do you think your doing?! Get out of hear you awful dirty little Seam monster!" She screams.
Oh no, it must be another poor, innocent child from the Seam desperate enough to come looking for scraps of food from the shops bins. Their attempts will be in vain though, our bin has just been emptied. This winter has been a particularly bad one and these instances have been occurring more and more commonly. I feel so sorry for them, not that our food is exactly first class, but still, we always have enough, most of them have never had a full meal in their lives. It's not their fault they ended up there and there is nothing I can do to help but sit and watch them guiltily from the warmth of the bakery where I do have a steady supply of food to fill my belly over the years as they suffer endlessly.

I peer out the dusty window just above me through the hazy sheets of rain to see if I can recognise the person. What I see shocks me right to my core. I do recognise the person. Seeing them like this, in this position and these circumstances instantly sends a sharp zapping pain through my heart. But it also starts the butterflies in my stomach and causes the heat to rise in my cheeks, not because of the hot fires. I recognise the knotty brown braid. It's Katniss. I'm shocked as I shuffle nervously over to the door to watch from behind my mother secretly. It angers me, the terrible things she is saying about Katniss, the girl I've loved for so long now.
"Move along before I call the Peacekeepers! I'm so sick of you brats from the Seam pawing through my rubbish!" She threatens.
I continue to observe quietly from behind mothers back. I'm nearly as tall as her now but when she talks like this, even when it's not to me, it makes me feel so small and I freeze up in terror at the memory of her stinging assults. I want so badly to stop my mothers words, to help the terrified, helpless girl in front of me. But if mother realises I'm outside it will only infuriate her more. So I stay timidly hovering over her shoulder and watch desperately as a confused Katniss replaces the lid on our rubbish bin and clumsily stumbles backwards in the thick mud.

As mother turns to go back inside I hastily return to my place and continue frosting the cake in front of me as if I had never moved. But after just one second I stop, my perfect craftwork falters as the awful pictures run through my mind. Katniss. She looked awful, so skinny and pale and bedraggled. Soaked to the bone with icy rain. I knew her fathers death had taken it's tole on her, he was the families provider. I felt awful for her, I couldn't imagine life without my father, it would be unbearable, unthinkable, he is the only thing that keeps me sane in this house hold. Now it all makes sense. Katniss has stepped up into her fathers shoes, she is the families sole carer now. Prim too young and their mother sucked into the deep, dark depths of depression. I had had my suspicions, seeing Katniss' deteriorating condition at school. But she also put up such a cold front that you had to believe that everything was ok. But now I can see that things had gotten so desperate that she feels the need to steal. I need to do something to help her. I can't just leave her out there to suffer, to die. I shudder at the thought of this.

Mother has returned to the front of the shop so I quietly cross to the ovens. I don't care if this earns me a beating, in fact I know it will, but I need to save Katniss, it'll be worth it for her. I stop and turn back to watch her through the window again as my recent decision conflicts in my mind. I wipe my nervous, sweaty, flour covered palms down my dirty apron. What am I about to do? Will it even work? I see Katniss stagger behind our pig pen over to the apple tree where she slides down the trunk to its base and cowers. She is giving up. My heart aches and I know what I have to do.

I turn my attention to my new task at hand. Katniss is far more important than a cake, she's worth a beating if it will save her life. Once I get to the burning hot oven I pause for a moment, take a deep breath and inspect the tray that sits above the fire, two loaves of our finest bread just starting to go golden, perfect. Then I nudge the tray slightly and it tips, sending the bread sliding into the roaring fire. There is a loud clatter as the tray falls to the ground, loud enough to be heard out the front of the shop. It doesn't matter, mother would find out eventually. I flick the slightly still burning bread loaves out of the fire and jostle them in my hands to avoid the heat of the charcoaled crusts burning me too badly.

Suddenly mother appears, slamming the door to the back open. Her face contorts into one of absolute rage before slipping slightly to something more of fed up not surprised disappointment. She looks wide eyed from the burnt bread in my hands, to the tray on the concrete ground to my terrified face.
"What have you done?! Did I ask you to touch the bread?" She screams. "Peeta Mellark your pathetic! Such a disappointment." She tuts darkening her tone.
Then it happens, she raises her hand above her head, already occupied by a rolling pin and before I have time to dodge it, not that I would have anyway because it would just give her more reason to beat me further, she brings it down hard on my cheekbone. The impact of the blow from the harsh wooden surface sends me flying into the floor. I gingerly lift a hand to my cheek and wince when I barely touch the throbbing surface. Already I can feel it starting to swell and it's probably scarlet red too. I cringe as I look at her, no emotion in her expression, not even a flicker of regret. Instead she just points to the open back door. I gather up the two scattered loaves of bread and dizzily regain my feet before scrambling outside.

Mother follows me out onto the porch, grabs me tightly by the wrist and spins me around so that she can shove the bread into my chest where the heat radiates through my frigid body before slapping my injured cheek again causing it to sting unbearably.
"Feed it to the pig, you stupid creature! Why not? No one decent will buy burned bread!" She yells over the loud rain smashing on the roof right in my face.
Even though my head pounds severely I turn around and role my eyes as I head out into the down poor and slosh through the caked mud over to the pig's pen. Mother watches critically with her hands impatiently on her hips as she scans my every move like a hawk. Deliberately slowly I begin to tear a few small chunks of the scorched parts of the loaves off and toss them into the pig trough, waiting, hoping that there will be some kind of distraction to cause mother to return to the front where she can't watch me. Our bakery is very popular so someone should arrive any minute. Finally I faintly hear the sound of the bell dinging out the front of the bakery and instantly she disappears.

Now's my chance. In my head I planned to go to Katniss, help her get home, muster up the courage to talk to her. Instead I freeze, I don't even look Katniss's way, not even a glance. I can't bring myself to even though I can feel her staring at me. Probably partly to do with the bright red welt rapidly rising on my cheekbone. But mostly i'd say she's confused as to why me, a stranger who she probably didn't even know existed until this very moment, took a beating to help her. But what she didn't know was that I had been madly in love with her since the day I first laid eyes on her. It's stupid really, like i said, she doesn't even know who I am and I know so much about her, but I can't help it. She's just so admirable, so brave, so beautiful. She has no idea of the effect she has had on me.

I glance back at the bakery quickly to make sure that mother is well and truly gone and then I look back at the pig. Except that's not where the bread goes, I throw the remaining majority of the still toasty warm first loaf of bread in Katniss's direction and as soon as that one has splashed in a puddle I throw the second one towards her too where it lands by her feet before I trudge back into the noticeable warmth of the bakery quickly so that mother doesn't see what I have done. I didn't realise how cold I was out in the rain until I was back inside so I close the kitchen door behind me. Then it hits me, what did I just do? I completely discard the cake I had been working so hard on and clamber up the stairs in the kitchen to my room noisily and slam the door behind me. I collapse on my creaking bed and sob into my pillow as best as I can with my eye now swollen shut.

I'm such an idiot! Why didn't I go over to her? I didn't even check to make sure she got the bread, for all I know Katniss could still be huddled in a crumpled heap at the base of our apple tree. I felt how cold I was from being out there for less then a minute, imagine how unbearably cold it must be for little skinny Katniss, already soaked through. She must think I'm such a jerk. I try to stifle my cries when I hear muffled yelling down stairs. The usual terribly high pitched screech of my mothers scream but also surprisingly the deep boom of my father's voice. This takes me by surprise, he hardly ever yells and it's not unusual for mother to assault me so why yell this time? Eventually I here the soft thuds of my father's footsteps coming up the stairs so I sit up, cross my legs, causing the sheets to tangle around my feet and wipe the tears from my face. It is only now that I realise that I'm still wearing shoes. When my door hesitantly opens and fathers face pokes around the corner the slight traces of remaining anger melt away and such a pitiful look replaces it.
"Oh Peeta," he says softly coming over to sit beside me.
Even though my brothers have their own rooms now I'm still stuck with the bunk bed that me and my brother closest in age, Rye, used to share so father has to crouch down in order to fit as he is such a large man. I must look to be in such a state as father starts to rub my back sympathetically. Face red and blotchy from crying, one eye swollen shut and if not starting to go purple by now still significantly red, rain plastering my hair to my forehead and clothes to my body as well as a mixture of salty tears and cold numbing rain drenching my face. I take a shaky breath and look up at father, a fuzzy image because my head aches so bad now.
"Here, let's get some ice on that." He says kindly passing me a tea towel filled with ice cubes and I hold it to my cheek.
The effect of the cool is instantly soothing on my hot cheek. Although I don't understand why father is doing this. Not that he doesn't love me, but normally he just leaves me to get rid of my frustrations in my own way. In saying that, usually I would react to a situation like this by just going back to my work and focussing really hard on my frosting, not rushing upstairs to wail my head off.

I don't know what to say as we sit there silently with father just observing me. Eventually I can't stand the silence.
"Thanks, but it's not my cheek that's bothering me." I mumble.
"She's fine, she got the bread, relax son." Father answers instantly as he delicately brushes my tangled hair from my forehead.
It's amazing how such a big, strong man can be so kind and gentle. I look up to him with a shocked expression.
"How do you know? Did you see?" I ask incredulously.
"Yes, I came to see what all the commotion was about. After you left she simply grabbed the loaves and scattered quickly off home." He says gruffly. "Don't worry, your mother doesn't know." He adds. "You love her don't you?" He suddenly continues more softly now. I freeze. "It's not hard to tell boy!" He jokes, attempting to lighten the mood, "The way you look at her, it shows me that you feel the exact same way that I did about her mother, don't give up on her, try to talk to her. That was a great thing you did just then, you saved her life you know." He nods approvingly, talking seriously again. When I still don't answer he adds, "Now, you go warm up, and look after that handsome little face of yours." And with that he smiles sweetly at me, ruffles my dripping hair as he always does and leaves.
After a quick bath I climb into bed in the bottom bunk under my thin, crumpled blankets and slip into a restless sleep.

I wake up early to an intense pain in my head illuminated by my mothers harsh yells.
"Get up lazy! You have school today!" Each time she speaks the throbbing multiplies.
I do not feel like I can go to school today let alone merely sit up or open my eyes. Why do I feel like this? I screw my eyes shut tighter and groan as I turn over and bury my face in my uncomfortable pillow. Then my cheek starts burning with pain as the pressure of the pillow digs into it and I remember all of it, everything. Just as I'm starting to sort through the jumble of confusion that was yesterday afternoon mother whips my covers from the bed exposing my bare legs to the sharp coldness of the winter morning. I roll over onto my back and squint groggily through the darkness at my mother with my one still functional eye. Blearily I can see her pulling the curtains open which only shows a purple dawn not providing anymore light for the small, dank, damp, wooden space that is my bedroom. That's the thing I hate most about winter, there is no amazing sunsets or sunrises to watch, especially sunsets, they're the best, absolutely breathe taking, they're my favourite part of the day. The beautiful array of soft pastel colours all mixed together to make the perfect shade of orange. She pulls my window closed to avoid anymore of the crisp, cold morning air coming in. No matter how bad the weather I always sleep with the window open as I love to hear the outside sounds to help me escape this terrible reality and have the fresh air come in and rid my room of it's musty smell. Once again mother interrupts my thoughts.
"I'm not telling you again, get up now before I bring the wooden spoon, that's a warning boy." She reminds me before exiting.

I stretch and get up with my head protesting in agony when I stand wearing only a baggy white t-shirt and checkered boxer shorts when I head downstairs for breakfast. I clutch the rail of the stairs tightly, afraid of falling as I pad down to the kitchen. When I get there the soothing warmth hits me instantly and the refreshing smell of freshly baked goods travels up my nose but it does not help my headache, or face ache in anyway.
"Woa, what happened to you? Looks like someone had a ruff night." Teases Aster, my oldest brother from the dining table as I hazily rub the sleep from my blurry good eye and try to smooth my messy bed hair down.
I here Rye chuckle from the other side of the room. They know what has happened, they are aware of how mother treats me. Apparently I was the extra mistake, and if I had been a girl it wouldn't have been as bad, according to her. My brothers just love to rub it in my face and I would shoot both of them a warning look, but the truth is, I'm really just not up to anything this morning.
"Boys!" Dad warns them sharply as he secretly slips me a few painkillers while I lean against the bench woozily.
I accept them gratefully and swig them back with a glass of cold water before I warily head to sit down at the table. Mother doesn't say anything to me, just goes about her business as if I didn't exist and the reason I am feeling so terrible right now was not her own doing. Father then places a few slices of slightly toasted bread in front of me thinly spread with butter and when I bite into it hesitantly I am not surprised to find that it is stale. That is the usual for us. The whole time I eat I can see Rye and Aster watching me tauntingly. Even chewing hurts. When I am finished I take my plate and leave it in the sink. My head begins to spin from getting up too quickly for it's liking right now and I grip the wall and press my forehead hard against it to find that the cold, smooth bricks do provide some solace from the constant pain. I regain my balance and carefully head back up to my room to dress, the painkillers have done little to help me. In my room again it has lightened somewhat, the weather does not look too bad today, and I glance quickly in the mirror. There will be no hiding the awful, aggressive blue-purple bruise spreading over my swollen cheekbone, swelling my left eye completely shut tightly, also blackened with a bruise. I will just have to tell people that I slipped on the deck and hit my face on the pillar again, but there are only so many times you can do that before people start to suspect things. I change into my clothes and tame my matted hair as best as I can before heading back downstairs. Now that I'm awake I do feel a little bit better but I do not wait for my brothers or say goodbye before I grab my bag and head slowly out the back door on my way to school.

Out in the fresh air my head begins to clear and I gain some confidence. It is as if spring came over night. The weather is not exactly warm, but the cold is more mild and bearable today and the sky is clear. I start to think about fathers advice last night. I need to talk to Katniss today. I just need to check on her. I can do it, what's the harm in just saying hello? Even just starting with a simple warm smile. Yes, I like that idea, starting slow. But sadly it happens again. In the hall during lunch I can see her watching me curiously, calculatingly, as I pass, I just start to prepare myself to smile at her encouragingly, but I freeze! I can't believe myself, I'm so embarrassed. Thoughts start running crazily through my head which has now reduced to a constant, dull ache. Dad was wrong, she hates me, she will never want to talk to me. She knows the real story behind my black eye, what if she plans on telling someone. I continue walking and keep my attention faced towards my friends as we go, avoiding her gaze. I don't know if she wants me to look at her or not, but either way, I don't. I'm scared, scared of what she thinks of me, scared of what she knows and saw. Has she interpreted my motifs in the wrong way? As much as I keep an eye out for her for the rest of the day I don't see her again until I am beginning to leave after school. She is just collecting her younger sister Prim across the school yard. I stare at her, mesmerised by her whole being. She looks better already since yesterday. Suddenly she catches me staring and our eyes meet for just a second before I turn away quickly, embarrassed. I wait a few seconds before I flit my gaze back in her direction, really hoping to get her attention this time, only to see her picking a dandelion. Then I realise there are no others around, it must be the first of the year. Trust Katniss to find that, she is truly amazing. I watch intrigued as her and Prim begin their journey home, just as I do every other day after that.