All rights reserved to Suzanne Collins; I do not own the Hunger Games. Thanks to AJLL for suggesting that I write a story from Clove's POV; I hope it turns out good. Please read, review, and enjoy!

Some people might consider it a curse to be selected for the Hunger Games. Me myself, I consider it an honor. There is no higher prize than to return home after having won the Games, the hero of the District. My mother knew the feeling as the victor of the fifty ninth Hunger Games, and as she would say if she were still here, only the strong survive. Only the strong survive…

"You're ruining her", says my mother.

Crouching at the top of the stairs, hidden from view, I listen as my mother and father argue. This is all that they seem to do as of late. Argue, argue, argue.

"How?" asks my father.

"You're weak. You're standing in the way of her training. She's going to become a Hunger Games victor, and know the sweetest feeling of achievement that life can bring. All you're doing towards that goal is fighting me at every turn. I can't even remember why I married you," my mother says.

"She's seven years old! Don't let her life be consumed by the business of fighting and killing now, or she will become a monster when she is older!"

"My daughter is not growing up to become a sniveling coward like you! And if you continue to stand in my way, you're going to regret it. Only the strong survive in this word, Bror."

The authorities put his death down to an accident. As a member of the District security force, my father went on many dangerous raids. It was an unfortunate accident, friendly fire on the job, a tragedy. Nobody knew the real culprit. But I did. I recalled the venom in my mother's voice that night, I recalled her single-minded determination. And with this knowledge, I knew who was to blame for my father's death. I had to do something about it, to avenge his memory.

The next day, I walked in from school, made a quick stop in the cooking room, and went on in to the sitting room where my mother was in her chair, watching the television. It was an old documentary detailing the Capitol's victory over the Districts way back when.

I walked up in front my mother, and without warning, plunged the sharp knife I had taken from the kitchen into my mother's heart. The last thing she ever said in this life was, "Why?"

I replied, "Only the strong survive in this world, mother. Looks like you're not one of the strong."

This is what led to my being taken in by a man by the name of Vikus. He himself was a Hunger Games victor, and had been previously named as my legal guardian if both of my parents should die. No doubt my mother picked him as the guardian, not my father. I still remember the day I first met him…

"Listen up, Clove," says Vikus. "I know that you're feeling down the dumps right now. Losing your father to an accident and then your mother to a cold-blooded killer who probably will never be found a day apart? That's tough, kid. That's tough. But I knew your mother. She was strong. You need to be strong as well. It's what she would want for you in this world. So as to honor her wishes, I'm going to do the best I can to train for the Hunger Games when you reach the appropriate age. Don't disappoint your mother, Clove."

"No!" I scream at him. "I won't! I don't want to enter the Games! And you can't make me!" I move as if to run past him.

I never make it. He grabs me in a headlock and says "Well, for a seven year old, you're mighty brave, aren't you? Good. You'll need that in the years to come." Then he hits me in the head. Hard. "And that's for disobeying me. Be sure it doesn't happen again."

This is the environment that I grew up in for the next ten years. I won't lie, living in the Victor's Village along with Vikus entitled me to all the possible comforts that one can have. I was never hungry, lived in fine style, and had access to a multitude of cosmetic products. This part of life was pure, utter perfection. The other part was more difficult, but also more rewarding:

Every day after school, Vikus would take me down to the basement of his villa. The basement had almost everything a Hunger Games hopeful could ever desire. Targets, dummies, rope, even fake rock walls for climbing purposes. From the first day, it was clear my talents lay with the art of knives. I did practice with other weapons, but the art of the knife was my true forte. And so for ten years, I practiced, putting in long, hard hours of dedication to my craft. Honing my skills until it was time. Time for the moment that I've been waiting for my entire life…

That is how I find myself standing here with other seventeen year olds, in District 2's main plaza on this Reaping day, listening to the mayor of the District prattle on about the glory of Panem. The proper opportunity has just presented itself when I jump on onto the stage and say in a strong, clear voice, "My name is Clove Jacia and I volunteer for the seventy fourth Hunger Games.

Yes, I volunteered. For you see, over the past ten years I have realized that my mother was right all along. I was meant to become a Hunger Games victor from the moment of my birth. I was blinded by fear back when I was seven years old, but now the blindfold is off. Now, I am ready to fulfill my destiny.

The Reaping continues onstage, as a monstrous boy lunges forward to volunteer, saying, "My name is Cato Otoru and I volunteer as male tribute for District 2."

We shake hands, and the anthem of Panem plays. I see in Cato's cold eyes not a single hint of friendliness. Good. Friendliness makes you let your guard down. If I ever let my guard down in the Games, I will die.

Just like my mother did.

Other stories of mine: The Seventy Fifth Hunger Games, From The Other Side, The Boy With The Bread, The Hunger Games Premiere.