Cato didn't mind it at all when he fell to the ground, and the mutts began to tear him apart. To him, he was already dead. He didn't really deserve to win these games. He could have saved her. He could have saved his Clove.
He felt numb as the mutts ripped into him, snarling and growling. He remembered Clove turning around and flashing him a snarky smile as she hit the centre of the target again. Remembered her sitting on top of him, pinning him down to the ground with a knife to his throat, smiling because she had won that time. Her lips, soft under his own.
Remembered blood splashing onto her face as she killed a helples s tribute, then flashing him a grim smile. Her telling him secretly under the stars that killing didn't make her feel exactly human anymore. Their argument over who would go in to kill Twelve and retrieve their packs. Her desperate screech for help, and watching her die, her hand clutched in his. Her lifeless hazel eyes cold and empty.
As the arrow that finally promised his death sped towards him, he fell to his knees. I'm sorry, he thought desperately. I'm sorry, Clove.