【饥饿游戏】01

When I wake up, the other side of the bed is cold. My fingers
stretch out, seeking Prim 1’s warmth but finding only the
rough canvas cover of the mattress 2. She must have had bad
dreams and climbed in with our mother. Of course, she did.
This is the day of the reaping.
I prop 3 myself up on one elbow. There’s enough light in the
bedroom to see them. My little sister, Prim, curled up on her
side, cocooned 4 in my mother’s body, their cheeks pressed together. 
In sleep, my mother looks younger, still worn but not
so beaten-down. Prim’s face is as fresh as a raindrop, as lovely
as the primrose 5 for which she was named. My mother was
very beautiful once, too. Or so they tell me.
Sitting at Prim’s knees, guarding her, is the world’s ugliest
cat. Mashed-in nose, half of one ear missing, eyes the color of
rotting squash. Prim named him Buttercup, insisting that his
muddy yellow coat matched the bright flower. He hates me.
Or at least distrusts me. Even though it was years ago, I think
he still remembers how I tried to drown him in a bucket when
Prim brought him home. Scrawny kitten, belly 6 swollen 7 with
worms, crawling with fleas 8. The last thing I needed was
another mouth to feed. But Prim begged so hard, cried even, I
had to let him stay. It turned out okay. My mother got rid of
the vermin and he’s a born mouser. Even catches the occasional
rat. Sometimes, when I clean a kill, I feed Buttercup the
entrails. He has stopped hissing 9 at me.
Entrails. No hissing. This is the closest we will ever come to
love.
I swing my legs off the bed and slide into my hunting boots.
Supple 10 leather that has molded to my feet. I pull on trousers, a
shirt, tuck my long dark braid up into a cap, and grab my forage 11
bag. On the table, under a wooden bowl to protect it from
hungry rats and cats alike, sits a perfect little goat cheese
wrapped in basil leaves. Prim’s gift to me on reaping day. I put
the cheese carefully in my pocket as I slip outside.
Our part of District 12, nicknamed the Seam, is usually
crawling with coal miners heading out to the morning shift at
this hour. Men and women with hunched 12 shoulders, swollen
knuckles 13, many who have long since stopped trying to scrub
the coal dust out of their broken nails, the lines of their sunken
faces. But today the black cinder 14 streets are empty. Shutters 15
on the squat 16 gray houses are closed. The reaping isn’t until
two. May as well sleep in. If you can.
Our house is almost at the edge of the Seam. I only have to
pass a few gates to reach the scruffy 17 field called the Meadow.
Separating the Meadow from the woods, in fact enclosing all
of District 12, is a high chain-link fence topped with barbedwire
loops. In theory, it’s supposed to be electrified 18 twentyfour
hours a day as a deterrent 19 to the predators 20 that live in the
woods — packs of wild dogs, lone 21 cougars 22, bears — that used
to threaten our streets. But since we’re lucky to get two or
three hours of electricity in the evenings, it’s usually safe to
touch. Even so, I always take a moment to listen carefully for
the hum that means the fence is live. Right now, it’s silent as a
stone. Concealed 23 by a clump 24 of bushes, I flatten 25 out on my belly
and slide under a two-foot stretch that’s been loose for
years. There are several other weak spots in the fence, but this
one is so close to home I almost always enter the woods here.
As soon as I’m in the trees, I retrieve 26 a bow and sheath of
arrows from a hollow log. Electrified or not, the fence has
been successful at keeping the flesh-eaters out of District 12.
Inside the woods they roam freely, and there are added concerns
like venomous snakes, rabid animals, and no real paths
to follow. But there’s also food if you know how to find it. My
father knew and he taught me some before he was blown to
bits in a mine explosion. There was nothing even to bury. I
was eleven then. Five years later, I still wake up screaming for
him to run.
Even though trespassing 27 in the woods is illegal and poaching
carries the severest of penalties, more people would risk it
if they had weapons. But most are not bold enough to venture
out with just a knife. My bow is a rarity, crafted by my father
along with a few others that I keep well hidden in the woods,
carefully wrapped in waterproof 28 covers. My father could have
made good money selling them, but if the officials found out
he would have been publicly executed for inciting 29 a rebellion.
Most of the Peacekeepers turn a blind eye to the few of us who
hunt because they’re as hungry for fresh meat as anybody is.
In fact, they’re among our best customers. But the idea that
someone might be arming the Seam would never have been
allowed.
In the fall, a few brave souls sneak 30 into the woods to harvest
apples. But always in sight of the Meadow. Always close
enough to run back to the safety of District 12 if trouble arises.
“District Twelve. Where you can starve to death in safety,” I
mutter. Then I glance quickly over my shoulder. Even here,
even in the middle of nowhere, you worry someone might
overhear you.
When I was younger, I scared my mother to death, the
things I would blurt 31 out about District 12, about the people
who rule our country, Panem, from the far-off city called the
Capitol. Eventually I understood this would only lead us to
more trouble.