There's a secret place I go when I want to be alone. Behind the training center there's a trail which leads to a cave, and here is where I'm perfectly alone. My brother was killed on the job today so I escaped from the swarms of unhappy people to go to my cave. Leaning against the cold rock wall I close my eyes and the darkness consumes me, carrying me away from District 2. I'm not known to be emotional at all, but today something comes over me, maybe it's all the things I never said, but I start to cry. It starts out slow first and I try to wipe them away but soon they become too fast to manage. I'm sobbing now and it hurts more than when I broke my collarbone, my chest is heaving and I can't breathe. I'm punching the rock wall, desperate for feeling, and my hands are coming away bloody and bruised. A scream rips from me and I hear the flapping of birds wings, I must have scared them away. My voice echoes and I collapse, out of breath and for the first time in my life I feel helpless and weak.
I can hear the padding of footsteps on the slightly damp ground and I freeze up, pulling myself into a fighting stance, wiping the snot from under my nose. There's a loud banging noise followed by avid cursing then the beam of a flashlight shines over me, illuminating the scenery around me.
"Clove?" It's Cato, the last person I wanted to see.
"Go away Cato." I snap, but my emotions leak into my voice and it cracks; he steps closer.
He sets down the flashlight and steps into the flood of light, he appears god-like and I envy how easy it is for him. His golden blonde hair is catching the light and it practically sparkles, he's towering over me, 6 feet tall and completely deadly. His shirt is clinging to him, he must have got caught in the rain, and you can see his muscles, rock hard and bulging.
"I heard a scream, thought you might've been in trouble." He's being strangely sincere.
"As if." I scoff, determined to appear strong and vigilant.
He steps forward and holds out a hand to me, his usual arrogant behavior escaping him, being replaced by a caring ruse.
"Up you go, little Clove." He pulls me up and my legs give out, causing me to fall into him.
We're so close now and I can smell the rain and the woods off of him, and I try my best not to just inhale deeply and clutch him tighter. His hand is brushing against my rear with his other supporting me by gripping my arm. I push out of his grip and fake annoyance, something I'm finding incredibly difficult under the circumstances. When we're standing facing each other he reaches out to push the hair out of my face and behind my ear, it's a small gesture but a chill runs down my spine. His hand lingers a moment on my cheek then shoots back, like he just realized he shouldn't even be here. Which he shouldn't, I'm 15, he's 18, he shouldn't even be in the vicinity of me, let alone touching me and making me think all of these things.
He opens his mouth to speak and I wait patiently for what he's going to say next, anything to distract me from the impure thoughts running through my mind, threatening to overcome me.
"I wasn't very close with your brother, but the guys said he was one of the best." Ouch. That's enough of a distraction, my heart pounds in my chest and my stomach lingers in my throat.
"I wasn't very close with him either." I hate myself now more than ever; I had been so busy training for the games I had forgotten to make bonds with my family, forgotten to care.
Even Cato, mad and strong and angry Cato, had deep familial bonds, his little sister was always holding his hands, his father patting him on the shoulder after training. He's 18 now, and the reaping is coming up and he'll volunteer, I know it; he has to because it's his last year. But he's so sure of everything that he didn't doubt his coming home. His family will be there waiting for him to saunter off the train, brave and beautiful and triumphant.
Cato's expression changes in the light of the flashlight, it's a pitying look mixed with confusion. I want to disappear into his arms again, for reasons I don't know, just bury myself there and forget about how little I care about my brother's death and how much I should be. My brother was going to be a Peacekeeper, he wanted to be one so badly and he died before he had the chance, what a shame. I, on the other hand, was given my own destiny, to be a tribute in the games when I was grown. With my superior knife throwing skills, fast decision making and agility, I was a shoe in for a volunteer, an esteemed role in the Career Districts.
The rain has stopped now and Cato puts his hand around mine, I notice how we fit like a glove, and he tugs me outside, picking up his flashlight as he goes. Its evening now and the sun is going down, coloring the sky a deep pink with touches of orange. He tugs his hand from my vice-like grip and scratches the back of his head, running his calloused hand through his golden hair. I don't know why he came, maybe he noticed me running from town when the news was broadcasted over the large televisions in the Square, but I don't know why he bothered.
"So the um, reaping is in a week." I'm desperate for conversation in this awkward silence; even the normally loud birds have fallen silent.
"Yeah." He grunts, shuffling his feet.
"Are you volunteering?" I press on, already knowing the answer.
"Of course." He scoffs, but he sounds upset.
"You're eighteen now, right? It's your last year to get out there and win, I presume." He's annoying me, only giving me one or two words answers; he's not much of a conversationist.
"Listen, can we not talk about the reaping, it's a bit of a sour subject." He pleads his voice urgent and frail. We've switched roles, he now sounds antagonized and about to be in tears, whereas I'm composed, arrogant even with my new found position.
"Why? You're a fighter aren't you; you could kill them all and not even blink." I'm not lying, he'd come home quicker than anyone else, the first day he'd have them all, barely bloodying his hand. He'd wring their necks and send them home in a box to their mothers, he wouldn't even care.
He yells at me and I can barely make out what he's saying, maybe he's just growling, his words muddled and sad. He turns on me and his eyes are cold and unblinking, his hand goes to my throat and all I can think of is how little I care that he could snap my neck. No one cares if you kill someone here, we're all mad and dangerous, and the closest to hell you can get without burning alive. He stays like this for a while, his hand around my neck, loose enough for me to breathe, tight enough for it to hurt. His eyes soften after what seems to be ages and his grip loosens then falls to my shoulder, shaking like a small child.
"Everyone thinks I can do it, but what if I can't?" His voice is small, echoing in my mind and once again I'm drawn to him, every essence of his being.
"Win?"
"Not even that, what if I can't kill them? What if I look them in the eye and they beg me to let them go. They didn't do anything to deserve an end like this, I'm not sure if I could kill just for some money and glory." He spits on the ground, inches from my muddy shoe and groans, a whimper escaping his tight-pressed lips.
"Cato, you're not acting like yourself, do you have a fever?" I bring my hand up to his forehead but it is cold as ice, not a trace of any warmth. He's not shivering from the cold though, I can tell.
"You're so stupid Clove, have a little faith in humanity. I'm a monster because I was told I had to be a monster, I didn't choose to be brought up like a killer. None of us chose to be born into District 2." His words bite, and suddenly I realize that I'm a monster too. I even killed a girl when I was 6, just to watch her scream.
She was a poor girl, living in the gutters. It was funny when I kicked her in the ribs in front of my clique; they laughed and cheered me on. I heard one snap and I smiled because it sounded wonderful, and even after they left I continued. I remember she looked me in the eyes and cried out but I kicked her in the teeth and she threw up blood and a watery liquid, there was no food in her stomach. She screeched and wailed and spit out chipped teeth and clumps of blood and when my foot came down on her throat she stopped. Everything stopped and I knew she was dead. What I remember most is the next day walking to school, passing by the gutter and seeing her bloodstains in the pavement, no trace of her tiny, frail body left. I convinced myself she deserved it for letting herself be so weak. It wasn't an admirable trait in District 2, and I did a good deed. I didn't tell anyone though, and up until my tenth birthday my feet and my maniacal laughter was my only weapon. After that my father gifted me some knives and I was trained to kill, no one knowing I already knew how.
I shake off the thought and pat Cato on the shoulder; he removes his hand from my shoulder and nods, before leaving me alone. In the distance clouds rumble and threaten to rain on my already wet face.