Part One

CHAPTER ONE

I knew they were different from the beginning. The way people would glance curiously in their direction when we are walking in the square. The way my father sometimes clutches the back of the kitchen chair, as if holding on for dear life, with his eyes squeezed tightly shut, while my mother attempts to calm him down with soft, soothing words of reassurance. How, some mornings she allows the enticing comfort of her bed overcome her, never once throughout the day leaving its cool sheets. But, despite my parents diversity from others, their love and protection towards my brother Asher and I, is perpetual.

"Willow!" calls my mother from downstairs."Come here please." I gently place the tiger lily I was previously sketching down on the quilt of my bed – its dominance of white creating a stark contrast from the rainbow of colored stitches – before hurrying towards the sound of her voice. I may appear physically identical to my mother, but according to Haymitch, I successfully took after my dad's artistic capabilities.

The subtle hint of a smile present on my mother's face is almost indecipherable as I enter the kitchen... almost. "Would you like to go hunting..." she questions, my widened eyes and open mouth blatantly acknowledged. "Or would you rather stay cooped up in your room, which, to be honest isn't such a bad idea bu–"

"Are you kidding?" I interrupt, the enthusiasm evident in the tone of my voice. "Of course!" I mentally wince at how childish and young my response seemed. Come on Willow, you're almost twelve. Pull it together, and stop acting like Asher.

My dad strategically peeks up from the dough he is currently kneading, catching my mother's eyes with his. "Sounds like you have a partner in crime, Katniss." He thoughtlessly disregards the scowl radiating from her face by simply chuckling and continuing to prepare the bread for toasting.

"Can I come?" Asher whines pitifully, after halting his progress on stirring whatever lie in the bowl Dad gave him. No. Not again. I cringe at the recollection of last time he decided to tag along. Who knew a six year old could appear so frightening to nearby game?

"Not today, Asher." my dad responds, playfully ruffling his head of feathery curls, and leaving a distinct imprint of flour upon the plethora of blonde stands.

Asher's jaw drops melodramatically at his now baking ingredient-clad hair. "Daddy!" he squeals while whipping his head around in his father's direction (no doubt flinging the white stuff upon the surrounding counters and floor). He instinctively scoops up a glob of the substance in the bowl, and slaps it with an unceremonious splat, onto Dad's cheek. "Pay back!" Asher exclaims victoriously as the gloppy mix drips onto the collar of his shirt.

"Hey!"

My mother sighs, the grin across her lips demonstrating that she is not at all peeved by the scene. She slowly turns to face me, placing a gentle hand on my shoulder."Go grab your bow. We'll leave soon."

I am already dashing up the stairs, as soon as my brain deciphers her first sentence. I approach the brown leather chest at the edge of my bed, a zealous attitude present, before fumbling with the rusty clasp. The lid creaks open eerily, as I widen the entrance for my arm. My fingers gingerly wrap themselves around the bow's slender wooden frame, the indentations of my initials – W.P.M. – acknowledged by their touch. The thing was most definitely older than me, potentially even older than my mother. It had derived from the few weapons left of my grandfather's, that had been long ago stashed securely in the woods...

When I return to my family, I find my dad's face caked in slop, and Asher's skin as pale as...well, flour.

"I hope you two plan to be clean, by the time we return?" my mother inquires in a reprimanding tone. He curtly nods, his focus more on tickling Asher in the ribs, rather than the bread that we were suppose to have with dinner tonight. Ignoring their moment of messy fun, she gestures for me to come along. I rapidly begin to follow in her tread, allowing the warmth radiating from the sun to envelop my body as my feet make contact with the earth.