the hunger games-饥饿游戏(英文版)-第5部分

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It　was　during　the　worst　time。　My　father　had　been　killed　in　the　mine　accident　three　months　earlier　in　the　bitterest　January　anyone　could　remember。　The　numbness　of　his　loss　had　passed；　and　the　pain　would　hit　me　out　of　nowhere；　doubling　me　over；　racking　my　body　with　sobs。　Where　are　you？　I　would　cry　out　in　my　mind。　Where　have　you　gone？　Of　course；　there　was　never　any　answer。
The　district　had　given　us　a　small　amount　of　money　as　pensation　for　his　death；　enough　to　cover　one　month　of　grieving　at　which　time　my　mother　would　be　expected　to　get　a　job。　Only　she　didnˇt。　She　didnˇt　do　anything　but　sit　propped　up　in　a　chair　or；　more　often；　huddled　under　the　blankets　on　her　bed；　eyes　fixed　on　some　point　in　the　distance。　Once　in　a　while；　sheˇd　stir；　get　up　as　if　moved　by　some　urgent　purpose；　only　to　then　collapse　back　into　stillness。　No　amount　of　pleading　from　Prim　seemed　to　affect　her。
I　was　terrified。　I　suppose　now　that　my　mother　was　locked　in　some　dark　world　of　sadness；　but　at　the　time；　all　I　knew　was　that　I　had　lost　not　only　a　father；　but　a　mother　as　well。　At　eleven　years　old；　with　Prim　just　seven；　I　took　over　as　head　of　the　family。　There　was　no　choice。　I　bought　our　food　at　the　market　and　cooked　it　as　best　I　could　and　tried　to　keep　Prim　and　myself　looking　presentable。　Because　if　it　had　bee　known　that　my　mother　could　no　longer　care　for　us；　the　district　would　have　taken　us　away　from　her　and　placed　us　in　the　munity　home。　Iˇd　grown　up　seeing　those　home　kids　at　school。　The　sadness；　the　marks　of　angry　hands　on　their　faces；　the　hopelessness
that　curled　their　shoulders　forward。　I　could　never　let　that　happen　to　Prim。　Sweet；　tiny　Prim　who　cried　when　I　cried　before　she　even　knew　the　reason；　who　brushed　and　plaited　my　motherˇs　hair　before　we　left　for　school；　who　still　polished　my　fatherˇs　shaving　mirror　each　night　because　heˇd　hated　the　layer　of　coal　dust　that　settled　on　everything　in　the　Seam。　The　munity　home　would　crush　her　like　a　bug。　So　I　kept　our　predicament　a　secret。
But　the　money　ran　out　and　we　were　slowly　starving　to　death。　Thereˇs　no　other　way　to　put　it。　I　kept　telling　myself　if　I　could　only　hold　out　until　May；　just　May　8th；　I　would　turn　twelve　and　be　able　to　sign　up　for　the　tesserae　and　get　that　precious　grain　and　oil　to　feed　us。　Only　there　were　still　several　weeks　to　go。　We　could　well　be　dead　by　then。
Starvationˇs　not　an　unmon　fate　in　District　12。　Who　hasnˇt　seen　the　victims？　Older　people　who　canˇt　work。　Children　from　a　family　with　too　many　to　feed。　Those　injured　in　the　mines。　Straggling　through　the　streets。　And　one　day；　you　e　upon　them　sitting　motionless　against　a　wall　or　lying　in　the　Meadow；　you　hear　the　wails　from　a　house；　and　the　Peacekeepers　are　called　in　to　retrieve　the　body。　Starvation　is　never　the　cause　of　death　officially。　Itˇs　always　the　flu；　or　exposure；　or　pneumonia。　But　that　fools　no　one。
On　the　afternoon　of　my　encounter　with　Peeta　Mellark；　the　rain　was　falling　in　relentless　icy　sheets。　I　had　been　in　town；　trying　to　trade　some　threadbare　old　baby　clothes　of　Primˇs　in　the　public　market；　but　there　were　no　takers。　Although　I　had　been　to　the　Hob　on　several　occasions　with　my　father；　I　was　too　frightened　to　venture　into　that　rough；　gritty　place　alone。　The　rain　had　soaked　through　my　fatherˇs　hunting　jacket；　leaving　me　chilled　to　the　bone。　For　three　days；　weˇd　had　nothing　but　boiled　water　with　some　old　dried　mint　leaves　Iˇd　found　in　the　back　of　a　cupboard。　By　the　time　the　market　closed；　I　was　shaking　so　hard　I　dropped　my　bundle　of　baby　clothes　in　a　mud　puddle。　I　didnˇt　pick　it　up　for　fear　I　would　keel　over　and　be　unable　to　regain　my　feet。　Besides；　no　one　wanted　those　clothes。
I　couldnˇt　go　home。　Because　at　home　was　my　mother　with　her　dead　eyes　and　my　little　sister；　with　her　hollow　cheeks　and　cracked　lips。　I　couldnˇt　walk　into　that　room　with　the　smoky　fire　from　the　damp　branches　I　had　scavenged　at　the　edge　of　the　woods　after　the　coal　had　run　out；　my　bands　empty　of　any　hope。
I　found　myself　stumbling　along　a　muddy　lane　behind　the　shops　that　serve　the　wealthiest　townspeople。　The　merchants　live　above　their　businesses；　so　I　was　essentially　in　their　backyards。　I　remember　the　outlines　of　garden　beds　not　yet　planted　for　the　spring；　a　goat　or　two　in　a　pen；　one　sodden　dog　tied　to　a　post；　hunched　defeated　in　the　muck。
All　forms　of　stealing　are　forbidden　in　District　12。　Punishable　by　death。　But　it　crossed　my　mind　that　there　might　be　something　in　the　trash　bins；　and　those　were　fair　game。　Perhaps　a　bone　at　the　butcherˇs　or　rotted　vegetables　at　the　grocerˇs；　something　no　one　but　my　family　was　desperate　enough　to　eat。　Unfortunately；　the　bins　had　just　been　emptied。
When　I　passed　the　bakerˇs；　the　smell　of　fresh　bread　was　so　overwhelming　I　felt　dizzy。　The　ovens　were　in　the　back；　and　a　golden　glow　spilled　out　the　open　kitchen　door。　I　stood　mesmerized　by　the　heat　and　the　luscious　scent　until　the　rain　interfered；　running　its　icy　fingers　down　my　back；　forcing　me　back　to　life。　I　lifted　the　lid　to　the　bakerˇs　trash　bin　and　found　it　spotlessly；　heartlessly　bare。
Suddenly　a　voice　was　screaming　at　me　and　I　looked　up　to　see　the　bakerˇs　wife；　telling　me　to　move　on　and　did　I　want　her　to　call　the　Peacekeepers　and　how　sick　she　was　of　having　those　brats　from　the　Seam　pawing　through　her　trash。　The　words　were　ugly　and　I　had　no　defense。　As　I　carefully　replaced　the　lid　and　backed　away；　I　noticed　him；　a　boy　with　blond　hair　peering　out　from　behind　his　motherˇs　back。　Iˇd　seen　him　at　school。　He　was　in　my　year；　but　I　didnˇt　know　his　name。　He　stuck　with　the　town　kids；　so　how　would　I？　His　mother　went　back　into　the　bakery；　grumbling；　but　he　must　have　been　watching　me　as　I　made　my　way　behind　the　pen　that　held　their　pig　and　leaned　against　the　far　side　of　an　old　apple　tree。　The　realization　that　Iˇd　have　nothing　to　take　home　had　finally　sunk　in。　My　knees　buckled　and　I　slid　down　the　tree　trunk　to　its　roots。　It　was　too　much。　I　was　too　sick　and　weak　and　tired；　oh；　so　tired。　Let　them　call　the　Peacekeepers　and　take　us　to　the　munity　home；　I　thought。　Or　better　yet；　let　me　die　right　here　in　the　rain。
There　was　a　clatter　in　the　bakery　and　I　heard　the　woman　screaming　again　and　the　sound　of　a　blow；　and　I　vaguely　wondered　what　was　going　on。　Feet　sloshed　toward　me　through　the　mud　and　I　thought；　Itˇs　her。　Sheˇs　ing　to　drive　me　away　with　a　stick。　But　it　wasnˇt　her。　It　was　the　boy。　In　his　arms；　he　carried　two　large　loaves　of　bread　that　must　have　fallen　into　the　fire　because　the　crusts　were　scorched　black。
His　mother　was　yelling；　¨Feed　it　to　the　pig；　you　stupid　creature！　Why　not？　No　one　decent　will　buy　burned　bread！〃
He　began　to　tear　off　chunks　from　the　burned　parts　and　toss　them　into　the　trough；　and　the　front　bakery　bell　rung　and　the　mother　disappeared　to　help　a　customer。
The　boy　never　even　glanced　my　way；　but　I　was　watching　him。　Because　of　the　bread；　because　of　the　red　weal　that　stood　out　on　his　cheekbone。　What　had　she　hit　him　with？
My　parents　never　hit　us。　I　couldnˇt　even　imagine　it。　The　boy　took　one　look　back　to　the　bakery　as　if　checking　that　the　coast　was　clear；　then；　his　attention　back　on　the　pig；　he　threw　a　loaf　of　bread　in　my　direction。　The　second　quickly　followed；　and　he　sloshed　back　to　the　bakery；　closing　the　kitchen　door　tightly　behind　him。
I　stared　at　the　loaves　in　disbelief。　They　were　fine；　perfect　really；　except　for　the　burned　areas。　Did　he　mean　for　me　to　have　them？　He　must　have。　Because　there　they　were　at　my　feet。　Before　anyone　could　witness　what　had　happened　I　shoved　the　loaves　up　under　my　shirt；　wrapped　the　hunting　jacket　tightly　about　me；　and　walked　swiftly　away。　The　heat　of　the　bread　burned　into　my　skin；　but　I　clutched　it　tighter；　clinging　to　life。
By　the　time　I　reached　home；　the　loaves　had　cooled　somewhat；　but　the　insides　were　still　warm。　When　I　dropped　them　on　the　table；　Primˇs　hands　reached　to　tear　off　a　chunk；　but　I　made　her　sit；　forced　my　mother　to　join　us　at　the　table；　and　poured　warm　tea。　I　scraped　off　the　black　stuff　and　sliced　the　bread。　We　ate　an　entire　loaf；　slice　by　slice。　It　was　good　hearty　bread；　filled　with　raisins　and　nuts。
I　put　my　clothes　to　dry　at　the　fire；　crawled　into　bed；　and　fell　into　a　dreamless　sleep。　It　didnˇt　occur　to　me　until　the　next　morning　that　the　boy　might　have　burned　the　bread　on　purpose。　Might　have　dropped　the　loaves　into　the　flames；　knowing　it　meant　being　punished；　and　then　delivered　them　to　me。　But　I　dismissed　this。　It　must　have　been　an　accident。　Why　would　he　have　done　it？　He　didnˇt　even　know　me。　Still；　just　throwing　me　the　bread　was　an　enormous　kindness　that　would　have　surely　resulted　in　a　beating　if　discovered。　1　couldnˇt　explain　his　actions。
We　ate　slices　of　bread　for　breakfast　and　headed　to　school。　It　was　as　if　spring　had　e　overnight。　Warm　sweet　air。　Fluffy　clouds。　At　school；　I　passed　the　boy　in　the　hall；　his　cheek　had　swelled　up　and　his　eye　had　blackened。　He　was　with　his　friends　and　didnˇt　acknowledge　me　in　any　way。　But　as　I　collected　Prim　and　started　for　home　that　afternoon；　I　found　him　staring　at　me　from　across　the　school　yard。　Our　eyes　met　for　only　a　second；　then　he　turned　his　head　away。　I　dropped　my　gaze；　embarrassed；　and　thatˇs　when　I　saw　it。　The　first　dandelion　of　the　year。　A　bell　went　off　in　my　head。　I　thought　of　the　hours　spent　in　the　woods　with　my　father　and　I　knew　how　we　were　going　to　su