Chapter 1
I could escape. Perhaps I could hide in an outlining District, change my face, my hair, my body. Peacekeeping in District 12 isn't as strict, so I hear. I could make it there. No. I could have. It's too late now. Leaving my District would have been difficult, but the Capitol; I'd sure enough be caught. My only choice is to survive. Survive as a monster.
Her fingertips wrapped themselves around my thigh like sharp edged rope, cold and tight. Instead of relaxing me it caused my muscles to contract and tighten to fight against her constricting rope fingers. 10 knives gauged at my skin with their cold tips and I cried out. I felt the tension release as her hands fell to her sides. She sighed out my name.
"Cato, you're going to have to relax." Her tone was patronising, but I submitted and put myself in a peaceful frame of mind and let her fingers lightly touch me as fingers, not blades. I didn't react, just laid face down, my head tucked in my arm. She became violent again and I felt my muscles cower at her touch. They retracted which shooting pains through the whole of my thigh. My breathing grew heavy. I clenched my jaw in pain as he fingers transformed once more into jagged knives. I can never be comfortable in these situations. I cannot relax when someone jabs at my exposed skin with cold fingers, but my injury only made my distaste much more discomforting. I had collapsed during training with a pain in my right thigh. I tried to continue but fell once more to the ground. I limped alone to the Doctor's office who sent me to the physiotherapist, who now had grown tiresome of my whimpers and retreated her hands from my skin.
"You've overworked yourself, again." She said once more with a condescending sigh to her voice.
"They overworked me" I muttered into my arm.
"Cato. Criticism is not welcomed here" She said and I turned to lay on my back. "What they're doing is marvellous. They're training you to be a victor and as victors themselves, they know what they're doing." Ignorance. Their training was nothing like this. We have become experiments. They try out new techniques and high levels of training that they never experienced to try turn us into perfect specimens; perfect murderers.
She started adding a thermic balm to my thigh that heated with touch. She started to massage it into the back of my thigh and I immediately felt the heat draw out the torture of my leg.
"You're going to have to take a week off, at least." She said with her balm-coated hands held in the air. A week off in this life is a huge setback. Such slacking is noticeable in the dealings they take and I wasn't happy risking my training and my development. I tried to protest, but she demanded that further training would only harm me and I would have no hope in competing, not that that was an issue.
"What if I didn't train my legs? Just do upper body training" I said with a desperate widening of my blue eyes.
"You need to rest, everything." I tried to argue, but wasted my breath. I took my shirt off and had her apply the balm to other sore areas of my body. She just shook her head with disappointment. I clenched my jaw with anger this time as she continually condescended me, my abilities and my limits.
My body was elate with warmth as my chest, shoulders and arm were coated in the thermic-balm.
"Try not to overwork yourself from now on" she said to me. I limped out of the door with my t-shirt in my hand and made my way alone to the weights room to find my trainer, Brutus. He was harsh and cruel. He believes that he was weak in his own games, despite winning; believes he was treated lightly. Because of his low opinion of himself from when he was eighteen, he pushes us all to limits beyond human capabilities.
His searching eyes found me as I walked in and he abandoned his spotting duties and left a students to struggle under the immense weight that Brutus had put onto him. One of the other boys rushed to his aid as the heavy weight came down on his chest. Brutus just shook his head with disillusioned disappointment.
"Cato, you ready to start again?" He said to me with his large arms folded and legs at shoulder width apart. He always stood in this stance, like he was trying to intimidate everyone whilst being prepared to defend himself from an attack.
"Physiotherapist says I have to take a week out to let my muscles relax" I said to him, overly playing on my disappointment and anger. The idea of a break had quickly settled in my mind and I was looking forward to a week away from this harsh lifestyle.
"A week! Do you realise how much training that is!" He shouted. He clenched his fists and took deep breaths. "This is fucking unbelievable." He said to me.
"I'll be back as soon as I feel even the slightest recovery" I said to try and reassure him, but he stormed off without listening to a single word, probably to go argue - and upset - the physiotherapist. I started to make my way through the corridors that had started to feel like home to me. The walls were blue, and through the middle was a golden strip that travelled through the whole of the Career Training Centre as a motif for victory, which was for both motivation and to show how we, in District 2 had won The Hunger Games more than any other district, while also showing wealth as our District was one of the wealthiest, and we always liked to show it off with costly celebrations throughout the year, expensive buildings and an unnecessary price range on everything from food to clothing, just to show that we could afford such 'lavish expenses.' I found it all to be disillusioned as The Capitol was harsh on us just like the other districts. To them, we were still poor. To them, none of us were victors.
My comfort in these hallways was beginning to worry me. The building had slowly become homely. The idea of Career training finally had become natural in my mind. Before, this place and the thoughts that lingered around it like ghosts that surround a haunted mansion, haunted my mind and forever struck my soul with a fear like standing on a ledge, where one small slip meant crashing to the ground.
Heavy training begins at the age of ten, but initial training begins at the age of five. It's barbaric, but it's the system. Training for the Hunger Games comes in three stages. The first stage is what we call initial training, or preparation. It begins with an application and selection process where those who already shown sign of mental or physical strength are chosen. This stage lasts for five years along with primary education and builds the foundations for carving a fighter, constructing early strength, stamina and agility. The second stage is known as Heavy training. It begins with another selection process, narrowing the numbers down to 12 boys and 12 girls to match the Games. This entails seven years of harsh training to further develop strength, stamina and agility while also introducing weapon mastery.
Before I decided to specify in sword fighting, I chose to fight with a spear. The reason was that it was the closest to a trident that I could take up. I was nine years old when Finnick Odair visited my house on business with my parents. He had just finished his victory tour and was here for reasons I didn't know, but he met with my parents for three of those days. The time overlapped with my brother's second selection at the Training Centre, so my parents were out for a while. He had stayed overnight in our guest bedroom. He was very mature for a fifteen year old, and he was kind to me. Rather than hiring a baby sitter, Finnick looked after me. I remember little of the time I spent with him, but somethings have stuck in my mind, like his warm smile and dimples, and his deep sea green eyes and messy bronze hair. I can recall the feeling of happiness and enjoyment. I also recall something he told me. When my brother came back, having found that he hadn't made it into Stage two, he kneeled in front of me and whispered in my year: 'Cato. Don't let them ruin you'. I didn't know what he meant; didn't know who he was talking about it, but it mattered to me because he said it. He had had a piece of ivory cloth that he tied around his wrist with a selection of sea shell bracelets. I took it off his wrist and for some reason he let me keep it. I used to wear it, but slowly it became more precious to me and so I kept it hidden and held it only when I felt alone or angry and wanted to feel those memories that he gave me.
I was fourteen years old and sat alone in my room, fumbling with this piece of cloth. I was still living with the relief of having not had my name chosen in the Reaping as I was so unprepared, although that is the point of these games. Every day leading up the tributes evaluation they play back some the favourite victories. That day they showed Finnick's victory. I used to be amazed by it, used to get excited every time I saw him kill a person with his magnificent trident, just because it meant he was winning. But this one time as I held that piece of cloth in my hand and watched as he slit the throat of another tribute in cold blood, I understood what he meant.
I saw the life leave the boy's eyes and I watched the life leave Finnick's. Each kill was a wound to himself. Each time he took the life away from another person, The Capitol took away part of his life. They were running him. I started crying in my room when I realised what position I was in, understanding that that could be me on the screen in the fast approaching future, slitting the throat of an innocent. I wanted out, but there was no way. Once you apply you cannot go back. I thought of purposely failing Stage Two, but they already knew enough of me. I was one of the top pupils and couldn't forfeit myself for they knew what I was capable of. I was one of their strongest; a true contender. If I were to quit then there would be repercussions. I had never felt true fright before that point. I was trapped in an unfortunate punitive world now, and it took three years before this brutality settled in my mind and I was able to normalise it.
Stage Three selects a single boy and girl who will volunteer on the day of the reaping to represent their District. I may have accepted my position in the system and the procedure I was trapped in, but I wasn't in any way hopeful to participate in The Hunger Games. I want my life to be whole. I wanted to be whole, not a fragmented ghost who spent his time a ghost of the Training Centre, wandering without a trace of self-will, ruined by the Capitol.
Once I got home I took a long, warm shower. This was the start of my relaxation period so for 45 minutes I stood naked with the water cascading over my muscles, hooking onto the now cold balm, pulling it off my skin.
I sat in my house for half an hour alone, with no sound and no clothes, wondering what I can do with myself. Usually, when I found myself bored I would go on a run or back to the centre to do extra weights. I would find some other way to improve my strength, or practice my sword skills, but I was supposed to be relaxing. I found myself lost without the training. It scared me. The ghosts of the training centre had followed me home and haunted my mind. My life had been consumed by the Games. Were they already ruining me? I asked myself. I hoped not. I hoped that this wasn't what Finnick had meant. At the thought of him I sprang to the small wooden box I kept hidden under jeans at the bottom of my wardrobe and pulled out his piece of cloth and wrapped it around my wrist. It comforted me and I felt peace in the room, but not in my mind. Fabric cannot expel ghosts.
I was alone for a few hours before my parents came home with my sister. She ran immediately into the living room and pulled out her toys and sat on the floor in her childhood contentment and played happily by herself. I came downstairs to tell them that I was going to be out of training for a week.
"Cato!" my mother said in surprise at my being home. "What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be at career training?" She said. She looked confused, but my father concerned.
"I injured my leg, overworking apparently. Physio says I got to take a week off to let I heal." As soon as I said I saw my father draw a breath and look to the window with anger. It reminded me of Brutus and his anger, but less outwardly expressed. My sister ran into the kitchen when she heard me. Her pink skirt flowed behind her like a tail. she ran into me and wrapped her small arms around my waist. She shouted my name and squeezed tightly.
"Oh honey, leave Cato alone, he's hurt his leg" my mother said, taking her hand and prying her away from me.
"Is Cato going to be okay?" She asked looking up at me. I crouched down so I was at her height. It hurt my leg so instead I balanced with my right knee on the floor, for less strain.
"I'm going to be just fine" I told her and she smiled gladly. She kissed my nose and skipped back into the living room. My sister was eight years old and had never been entered into career training. I guess my parents were content enough with myself being such a 'success.'
"How is this going to affect your training?" My father asked, his head still turned to the window.
"Hardly at all" I said to reassure him. He showed no reaction. My mother seemed hardly concerned with my training.
"Is it just your leg?" My father asked, asking himself the same questions that I had asked the physiotherapist, most likely wondering to himself why I wasn't able to continue with upper body training.
"Mainly my leg, but I've been told to rest all muscles since there were some other minor pains." He took a worrying breath once more. "I'll be back as soon as I'm feeling better" I said to him though he didn't seem to be listening. Instead he looked mad, ready to rant. I wouldn't be surprised if he had gone to the centre to argue with the physiotherapist, just like Brutus. He stood still though, not moving from his spot for the entire time that I was in the room.
After that I didn't know what to do with myself. I found myself yet again bored. It reached a point where I hoped to recover overnight just so that I could occupy myself for these moments when I was free. Although it was ironic, because even when I was given leave from my training, I was still tied down by it.
