"Clove! Why are you home already?" comes an angry shout. A tall muscular man rises out of his plush red sofa, features twisted with rage. The door to his lavish house stands open, and rain drums on the window pains. A small dark haired girl stands in the wet, covered with bruises.
"It's twelve p.m. Daddy," she whispers, hesitantly stepping over the threshold. The man throws his remote control down in anger, and the t.v. blares on, ignoring the drama unfolding in the house. He stalks over, grabbing a chunk of her hair.
"You know you have to practice until two on Saturdays!" he growls, practically spitting in her face. A vein is popping out of his cherry red neck, and his hands are rough and angry. Clove stands there, face twitching, and the smallest of whimpers escapes her lips.
"Say something!" he screams, throwing her down on the floor. She collapses and her head hits the cold, unforgiving tile, hard, sending out a loud bang of noise. She screams, and her hands come to the new gash in her head, and come away red.
"Please! I'm sorry, I was just so tired, and Cravat said I was doing good and I could come home early. I'm so sorry-" she is cut off as he roughly kicks her again, and this time she only moans.
"No excuses! Never show weakness! Never have mercy!" her father barks, raising his foot for another kick. She quickly rolls over, grabbing the drawer of a chestnut desk to pull her self up. Her father grunts.
"At least you're leaning something," he snarls, to her bloody, trembling form. She grabs her dark hair with scarlet hands and pushes it back, steeling her face.
"Yeah, Cravat says I'm already as good as the twelve year olds," she says, jumping to the opening in the fight. Her father narrows his eyes, turning back to his television set.
"Twelve is the first year you can even enter the games! And then only the best volunteer! You need to train harder," he says coldly, settling back into his comfy looking couch. His eyes lock on the t.v.
It's playing some old re-run of a couple of games, and currently a tall golden haired girl was stabbing a small boy, again, and again, and again. Blood splatters her each time, and her perfect features are stained red. Her mouth is twisted in some sort of sob smirk, and she won't stop stabbing the little boy, even though he's long dead.
Clove backs away into the rain, trying to block out the image. Without taking his eyes away from the t.v. Her father opens his mouth to say something. She flinches, backing away.
"I'm going!" she whispers.
"I know," he sounds annoyed, "I was just going to say shut the door on your way out." Clove stares at him, but eventually the throbbing pain in her head shocks her out of her stupor. She carefully takes the door and shuts it quietly with trembling hands, before starting off into the rain.
She was only seven.
...
Thunk!
Thunk!
Thunk!
Thu-
"Clove!" calls a loud voice. I ignore it, and send my dagger flying into the next dummy. It makes a satisfying 'thunking' noise like the rest of them. Now the speed of the dummies increase, and they pop out of no where, flashing red, seconds after each other.
I'm totally focused and my knives fly from my hands, hitting the direct center of each dummy. The next dummy spins out in front of me and automatically my hand throws the dagger. But is that a wisp of blonde hair on that dummy? Hadn't the last one had blue eyes?
The dummies suddenly all have hair, eyes, their cloth skin is morphing into fleshy and soft, scarlet stains bloom on their chests, their heads, they are staring at me, the light fading from their eyes...
"CLOVE!" this time the shout is louder, and strong hands are around my shoulders. I sink back into a warm body, looking around in horror. The dummy I was so sure had blonde hair is standing in front of me, peppered with at least thirty of my knives, swaying precariously.
"Just one should do it," says a soft voice, and a warm hand pushes back a lock of my dark hair. Now, I recognize the voice. Cato.
"I know," I say miserably, turning around so that I'm facing him. As usual he's tall and tanned, wearing a cut of sleeve shirt that shows his huge bulging arms. Sandy blonde hair falls in his eyes, that are watching me seriously. To any other girl, standing this close to Cato Farner is a dream come true.
But I'm not like that.
So I push away, and stalk over to the dummies, grabbing my knives, and sliding them quickly into my belt. Soon my belt holds around twenty-five knives, all clanking around me, and I hold ten.
"Clove," he says again. I spin around, my usual provocative anger spiking through. Do you have some obsession with saying my name or something?
But instead I force a controlled answer through gritted teeth, "What?"
"Cravat is calling a meeting," he says hesitantly, swinging a wicked looking sword by his side. I grab my wild black hair and fasten it into a long pony tail, something I have a habit of doing when I'm jittery.
"So?" I snap, staring at him. Cato sighs, running a hand through his hair. Why does he always do that?
"Clove, it's a meeting for everyone, you know, to announce the competition," Cato replies, annoyingly patient. He's only like this with me, with everyone else, he acts like an ass, self centered, and constantly smirking.
The competition.Every year, everyone eligible for the Hunger Games competes in the District Two competition, a test of all the skills needed for the games. The two winners, one girl, and one boy, are the two people allowed to volunteer at the Reaping. I have been training for the Games my entire life, but only at sixteen, I doubt I will win.
The winners are always eighteen, and have trained their whole life for the Games. Everyone knows that Cato will win. He is eighteen and already the District Two prodigy. I sigh, because my father expects me to be a perfect monster, trained and bred careful for this.
He expects me to win the competition and enter the Games at sixteen.
"Alright, I'm coming," I say, my thumb flicking the off the button for the dummies, until I realize Cato has already done it. Oh course, stupid! If it was on, the dummies would be moving!
Mildly embarrassed, I drop my sheathed knives in my sports bag that sits empty by the door to the huge training room. I keep one slid up my sleeve and push one into each of my tall, flexible, black boots. Then I zip the bag shut, and stand there looking at it.
"Come on," I say coldly, my finger hovering over the switch for the light. Cato stares at the slashed up dummy for a second. I glare, tapping my foot. If he makes another comment...
"Okay, okay, I'm coming," he smirks, still twirling his sword. Cato walks across the white tiled room toward me, his loud foot steps echoing through the large empty room. This part of the Career academy is devoted to knives. One wall is covered with knives, of varying colors, shapes, sizes, and of course, lethalness. I had been practicing on the moving dummies, but there were stand still dummies, long distance targets, anything that could possibly challenge you with a knife.
"Clove!" he laughs again, still smirking. I start out of my thoughts, realizing that he has already left the room and is walking down the hallway. I growl slightly and catch up to him, landing a well aimed blow on his upper arm. Cato winces. There. Not such a tough guy after all.
We walk in silence for a bit, but as the shouts, and clashes and screams of the main center grow louder, my hand unconsciously slips into Cato's, and I try to steady my trembles. I've never liked loud noises. But it's hard to avoid that in the main room.
The main room is giant, and is where most of the beginners practice, or people who want help with something. It has a place for every single activity, rock climbing, archery, survival skills, anything to do with the Games. Of course, if you specialize in something you can go off and practice in a room devoted to that, but Cravat was always in the main room.
Cato gently tugs me in, and the only thing that seems to be anchoring me down is his hand, firmly clasped around mine. Everyone has gone a bit fuzzy, and the racket from all the screaming, grunting, shouting kids has seem been muted. There seems to be red stains everywhere, on the chest of a girl sparring with a boy, on the hands of small boy, desperately scaling a rock climbing wall as fast as he can, on the arrow head of a focused archer...
"Clove," my name uttered softly in my ear jolts me out of my horror, and the unbearable shouts continue.
"Sorry Cato," I mutter, releasing his hand. A few other older kids are handing around the perimeter of the room, arms crossed, glaring silently at the floor. The younger kids are still scrambling all over the stations, but a familiar bald head is rushing around, pulling the kids away from their activities. Cravat.
"Cravat, you need some help?" Cato calls, striding away from me. I stare at his empty spot, praying that the others don't come over. But of course, they do.
"Hey Clove. Cravat called you too?" asked a mildly friendly voice. It's Leif, another eighteen year old boy. He's not quite as unfriendly as everyone else, but of course, I am.
"Obviously. The competition is for everyone eligible for the Games," I drawl. Leif just grins, which is extremely irritating.
"I know, just asking," he says, hands up. I suppress a snort. All of the older kids think they're so good, but I know Cato will win. I open my mouth for another snarky retort, but a tall girl with shimmery blonde hair stalks over. Ivy.
"Come on, don't even bother talking to her. She thinks she's so much better then everyone," Ivy snaps, grabbing Leif's arm and leading him away. Now I stand alone, slightly uncomfortable.
Cato and Cravat have finally gotten the kids into some kind of order, and everyone has gone silent. I find the shock from loud to quiet is unpleasant. Cato is still standing by Cravat. I wish Cato was over here.
"As you all know," starts out Cravat in his large booming voice, "District Two holds a yearly competition to find out which of all of you, are the best. The best of the best." He's quiet for a second, letting his words sink in. The younger kids are all chattering excitedly, all probably thinking that they might win, and that they might be able bring honor to District Two.
I feel my self slipping, because that thought has brought on a whole new rush of memories...
...
"I didn't make it Daddy," Clove whispers, one night over a dinner of cold eggs. Her beefy father looks up, eyes zeroing in on her.
"You didn't make it?" he repeats, in a deadly voice. She nods, and gulps, eyes shining with terror.
"Cravat says only the eighteen year olds usually make it, and that I did really good for twelve," she says hesitantly, putting her fork down. Her father grabs his butter knife and sinks it into the oak wood table, standing up.
"I don't care what Cravat says! I want to know why you didn't make it!" he screams, like an uncontrollable toddler. She trembles, fingers closing around her own butter knife.
"I wasn't good enough Daddy. The twelve year olds never make it," she says, sliding the knife beneath the table, concealing it. He rips the table cloth off the table, sending everything flying.
"How were you not good enough? You've been training since you were two!" he shouts, advancing forward, a fork clutched in his hand. She carefully slide her fingers into her boot, pulling out a wicked looking knife, that doesn't seem to belong in her child like hands.
"So were the eighteen year olds," she says in a small voice, both knives still covered.
"That's not an excuse!" her father barks, slamming his fist on the table. Her knives are out faster then he can blink, and she is surprisingly calm.
"Cravat says I can throw these really well," she says, glancing down at her butter knife. Her father smirks, twirling his fork. He hasn't seen her other knife yet.
"Oooh, a butter knife. I'm so scared," he sneers, still walking towards her. She sighs, bringing the other knife into view. Her eyes are blank and expressionless, like someone else is controlling her. He stiffens.
"Oh, you know, Cravat says I should learn to protect my self," Clove murmurs, her little white fingers stretched out on the knife, ready to flick it into her father's chest. He knows this.
"I'm going to bed," her father growls, throwing the fork down. After another wary glance at his daughter, he grabs a bottle of beer and vanishes into another room. Clove is shaking very hard. Today she has won...
...
"So, make sure to be here on time tomorrow," barks Cravat, and I realize I'm swaying, and that there's blood in my mouth. Crap. I bit my lip. Everyone's staring at me, so I lift me head, avoiding Cato's searching gaze.
"Well, get back to your work," Cravat says, annoyed, because we are all standing around him like big lumps. The kids surge back to their stations, pushing and yelling. The older kids hang around, talking quietly. Probably about you, you idiot.
"Clove, what are you doing?" asks an amused voice. Of course it's Cato. He's standing with Leif, Ivy, and the others, and I'm standing alone.
"What?" I snarl, because to me there's nothing wrong with standing alone. But I guess when you're Cato, you can't afford to have loser friends.
"Come on over here. You look lost," Cato smirks, earning an overly high pitched squeal from Ivy. Her dark green eyes are full of loathing as they glance my way. Her hand is on Cato's arm. Why the hell is her hand on his arm?
...
Don't be an idiot, Clove. You're not jealous of Cato. Now I'm standing with his pack, and they're all laughing and joking, but my eyes can't stay away from Ivy and Cato. She's got her hand shoved down his back pocket, and she's annoyingly close to him. His large tanned arm is stretched around her shoulders, playing were her long hair.
No one is talking about training, or the games. I want to be back in the knife room, practicing for tomorrow, but they don't. There's no other sixteen year olds here, only eighteen, and a handful of seventeen year old kids. That's how it is, if you can kill some one in at least twenty different ways, you're in. I can kill someone in thirty different ways.
Stop Clove, focus. You can't spaz out here in front of Cato's worshippers.
"Why don't we go practice, you know. For tomorrow?" I say loudly. Everyone stares at me like that's the stupidest thing ever. Already I can feel my self flushing.
"Clove, honey. Not all of us need to practice. But if you feel the need, why don't you go practice?" Ivy says cruelly, her arm tightening around Cato. My heart beat quickens, and blood rushes to me head. Everyone's sneering faces seem to be closing in around me.
"I'm going with Clove," says a soft voice. It's Cato, and he's holding my hand, pulling me back to reality. Ivy stands abandoned next to Leif, looking angry. I curl my fingers around my knife, the soft leather grip's familiarity calming me instantly.
"I'll go with Cato," Boar grunts. Boar is a huge meaty seventeen year old, but looks eighteen. He follows Cato around like a lost puppy.
"Me too," Shard, a tall, thin, guy, says. A tiny girl called Shana rolls her eyes, but I know she's in because she follows Shard everywhere. Leif grins at me, and I guess I'm suppose to melt into a puddle because he looks a bit peeved when I don't smile back.
"Sure, sure, I'm in. Guess I could use a little practice. Ivy will come too, won't you Ivy?" Leif says, cracking his knuckles. Ivy looks a bit mad, but she tosses her hair, and stalks forward. Cato follows, and I feel like a little girl as he tugs me along, his big fingers enveloping mine. I don't like the feeling.
I pull away sharply, but he doesn't seem to care. The others follow, and Ivy leads us to a kind of a mini version of the main center, but it's weapons only, no survival or strength stations. I drop my gym bag and grab a few knives.
Ivy heads over to the spear area, where she stabs a few dummies in the gut. Leif and Cato face off with wooden swords, with Boar watching wide eyed. Shard and Shana grab some bows.
Deftly, I flick the first knife out of my hand, and it lands squarely on the center of target that sits across the entire room. Whoa, that was lucky. Now I have everyone's attention, a chance to prove that I'm the best.
The dummies are moving now, Cato turned on the switch. I lunge, sending five daggers at once, and they sink into the dummy satisfyingly. I start to feel the familiar fuzzy feeling in my head, and I whip out the knives faster and faster, not stopping to watch where they hit.
Soon the strange feeling fades away, and the dummies come to a halt. I have hit every dummy right in the chest. I'm shaking slightly, but I calm my self, smirking slightly at the fact that everyone is trying not stare at me.
"What?" I snap, jogging over and collecting my knives.
"Oh nothing, just the fact that you just hit every single target right from across the room," says Shard sarcastically, and Ivy glares slightly. They're all jealous.
You've got this Clove. You could win...
Alright, that was the first chapter. I just wanted to make a Clove story that explained why she was so messed up. I find that everyone either hates her, or thinks she's awesome because she's so evil.
I don't think any of the tributes are really evil, so that's why I wrote this.
It's my first Hungers Games fanfic, so don't be harsh.
Reviews are appreciated! :)
-Madi