Disclaimer: I can write Everthorne too ;) I actually wrote this a couple years ago, and decided to revisit it and make some changes. It is very short but I hope you like it. xo (There's some direct THG quotes in here. I don't own them, Suzanne Collins does.)
I approach the fence with caution. It looks so evil, so confining, so dark. Although I know it's not on, as I can tell from the dead silence it emits and not the buzzing hum of life it should give off, I'm still distrustful. Finally I realize this is what keeps us from starving and slip underneath it with as much confidence as I can manage.
The woods. I take a deep breath. It's beautiful here. Katniss, don't go, the voice of my seven-year-old sister Prim flashes back into my mind. We can make do somehow, without you risking your life in the woods. "No, we can't," I had told her. And we can't.
Ever since my father died, I've been taking care of my family. My mother has slipped into depression that nothing can fix. It's as if she believes if my father will come back to life, out of the mines that killed him, if she stays quiet and indifferent for as long as she can. And that's quite a while. It's been months now, and we've nearly starved. So I hunt.
I walk deep into the trees til something catches my eye: a snare, wrapped around the leg of a fat grey rabbit. I gasp quietly; whoever made this is an expert in their craft. I envy the steely perfection of it. I could only dream of creating a trap like this.
"Stealing is punishable by death," I hear a voice tell me pointedly.
I spin around. A boy with dark hair and grey eyes like mine, who must be a full foot taller, approaches me.
"I - I wasn't stealing it. Just looking at it. Mine never catch anything."
He starts to nod skeptically, but his eyes drift towards my bow. He looks somewhat taken aback. "Can I see that?" he asks.
"Sure," I say as I hand it to him. "Just remember, stealing is punishable by death."
He gives the smallest hint of a smile as he takes it and examines it. "Where'd you get this?" he asks.
"My father made it," I tell him. "But I only have this. My snares, like I said," I sigh, "never catch anything." He stands there indifferently. "But if you could teach me how to make a good snare I could get you a bow," I say to him.
He almost laughs. "How old are you, anyway? What's your name?"
"Katniss," I mumble quietly, so quietly I doubt he heard me. "I'm...I'm eleven."
"Okay, Catnip. Here's the deal -"
"It's Katniss," I say louder.
"Katniss," he says with an idignant sigh, "we can try working something out, I suppose. I'm Gale, by the way."
Gale. Why do I recognize the name? No, it's not the name - it's the face. I've seen it. Not just at school - somewhere else. "The Justice Building," I stammer quietly. "Your father -"
"The mines," he whispers. "I remember you now."
"Kinda hard to forget someone named Catnip, don't you think?" I say, laughing a little.
"Not for me, I guess," the corner of his lip raises in some sort of half-smile. "See you tomorrow? Dawn?"
"Sounds good," I say.
"Alright, Catnip." Then he simply vanishes into the giant mass of leaves, without making a single sound.