There wasn't the constant fight for survival in her District. They were the favoured ones. The lucky ones. They didn't have the same threat to their survival, the starving rage and madness.
They had the same hunter's instincts. They just hunted different things.
In the Games it wasn't their job to entertain the Capitol. The other Districts did that. It was their job to eliminate the competition – if there was any – and to prove that their District was the best. They were fighters, trained to kill, and trained to survive. (But this wasn't survival. This was sport).
In their District the fight wasn't for food, it was for dominance (power). For blood. For revenge.
Clove was one of the best and the worst, traits which coincided within her District. She was the best at killing, the best at causing pain. And for the other Districts, that also made her the worst. (Inhuman, unnatural. Ice.)
She thirsted for revenge for a long ago cause most had long since forgotten. And she no longer cared who received the wrath of her revenge, driven insane by her memories and her training. She'd stopped caring whether she lived or died but death was defeat and Clove never lost. Not anymore.
Living was memories and stubbornness and alive. But Clove was alive and not truly living, despite that pain and anger that clawed its way through her. Living was smiles and tears and friends and showing weakness (emotions).
Clove existed. A puppet under the commands of the girl she had once been instead of the one she was now. The second she had finished her last order she would fall, a marionette whose strings had been cut.
And her last order was revenge, the need, the urge for blood. She knew she was insane and once, long ago, she would have hated what she had become. She had let them break her. Now though she couldn't summon the emotion to even hate herself.
Fire had taken her family (the Capitol had taken her family).
She would take the girl from the fire. And revel in her screams.