Date: September 26th
Date of reaping: October 26th
I'm falling, falling off of a place I once knew as reality, where did my humanity go, where did my life go?
"Clover," my mother demanded my attention yet again in the dimly lit kitchen of our house, "You should really be getting to training soon." I stand up slowly, my face twisted into a look of hatred and distance, my refusal you talk to my mom continuing as I took my time in smoothing out the crinkles in my tunic before leaving the charcoal black house that my family had resided in all those years, and made my way to a training center that flourished in a bright red hue under the fall light.
A couple of the trainers roamed around the outside, slowly herding the younger kids inside for lessons or to watch the fights that had begun the day before, being a month away from the reaping, all schools had been shut down for practice. That's what life was for the eligible children here in district two, during schools days, you spend 5 hours in in class, then report to 'tribute practice', and in the final month, training becomes your life, morphing the tributes into victors was the goal of our district, the glory, riches, fame, that would outweigh the faults.
"Rule One, awareness of your surroundings," I hear a taunting voice respond as two large arms that Identify as Cato's wrap around my neck. I deliver an elbow to his stomach, hard enough to temporarily shock him, yet enough time to transfer my hands to a pressure point on his neck, that when squeezed, sends him reeling towards the floor.
"Rule two," I muse, "don't underestimate your opponent." His blue eyes stare up at me, and after all these years, I still don't know how to read them. He winces for a moment, leaning his head back as he took a huff of breath, the sound resembling a sort of bear. He chuckled, as if to accept defeat, one thing that Cato was not capable of admitting.
"Touché, Knives." He responds as he pulls himself off the floor that reeks of sweat and the iron of blood that's lasted there for years. "What's on the agenda for today?" he asks as the two of us begin to walking to the "heart of the center," the place where you meet before and after every practice, check in and out, and record progress. I shrug in response, completely expecting myself to be throwing knives for the better part of the day, but knowing very well that I should practice on skills that I would need in the arena if they didn't offer any knives.
I quickly scribble my name on a small and badly made wooden table that barely stands in the middle of the heart, threatening to fall over at any sign of disturbance, for one of the more…financially able districts, we couldn't make a good table for shit. "Clover Marcotte," he reads off in a comic capitol accent as he makes a scribble that may or may not be made out as his name, though before I have a chance to comment or punch him in the arm, after telling him how much I hate when he calls me Clover, he pulls me off to the arena.
I heard cheers, two different names being chanted from the audience, though being out of sync; it came into a mold of the two. They were younger kids, one looking to be about 13, while the other stood taller, looking to be closer to 14. They were sloppy in fighting, no doubt the kind of kids that goofed off during physical enrichment. One spat a slur at the other, and was rewarded with a punch to the jaw, receiving either a cheer or disheartened "oof" from the onlookers. The pair were quickly losing energy, after each swing they seemed to get slower with less accuracy then before. Before another shot was made, a tall, well-built man was on stage, Varius, on of the head trainers. He pushed the boys apart with calloused hands, "that's enough," he chuckled, his voice resonating with a brutal and sarcastic quality. "Who's next?" he mused, glancing around the audience, ignoring the younger children that were nearly jumping up and down for a chance to show the lot of people that showed up what skills they may have started to build. His eyes fall on Cato, who is obviously somewhere else at the moment. I jab him in the side, getting him back to the situation as Varius calls him up on stage, along with Archer Delson, knowing very well that the two have hated each other for years.
The two climb up to the stage, not a word transferred between them, in fact, the only noise to be heard were confused whispers that came from around the room. "Don't kill each other." Varius advises as he backs off the platform, "No promises," Archer says in a cocky tone, followed by the brunette leaning up and whispering something to Cato, who began to fume, his eyes turning into a fire that ran upon anger. Archer, who held a face of pride and arrogance, took his time leaning back into a fighting stance, allowing Cato a block of time to swing his fist into the boys jaw, at which point, he attacked. "That's the Cato I know," I mutter as the two swung at each other, mearly fighting to see the pain on the others face, rather than training. I glanced at the timer that hung on the wall, timing each fight; ten minutes. I shuffle over to Varius, who seems very interested as the boys attempt to strangle each other, "Don't you think you should stop them?" I ask. The man jumps, "Clove…" he breaths, taking in what I said for a moment, surveying the audience for a face that shared my concern, though most seemed more interested in the shade of blue that their faces would begin to flourish in as one blocked off their air. "Go ahead and stop them if you wish, we don't need a crippled victor."
I roll my eyes, entering the gated circle as the two took swings at each other. "HEY!" I shout, trying to get in between them without getting crushed under them. Archer dives for Cato's neck, but getting fed up, I swing an elbow back into his elbow into his stomach. Sending him backwards, and myself to the ground, and Cato's fist collides with my left eye.