Author's note: Just a small one-shot about Clove. I have all these stories saved on my computer, and I want to upload them now, since it's the two-week holidays. Once school starts, I can hardly upload because I have an English teacher who gives us an illegal amount of homework.
Disclaimer: I do not own The Hunger Games.
Clove was lethal, killing, cold, sadistic, smart and sarcastic and when it came to killing, showed no mercy. People described Clove as the perfect career. They knew Clove could kill anyone by using her knives. They thought she could win, despite being a short sixteen year old. But her height gave her an advantage; it made her agile and fast. Yes, they thought, Clove was the perfect career. But Clove didn't think she was, she knew she was. How they were so wrong.
Clove was once a sweet young girl; a girl who wore dresses and ribbons in her hair, and one who dreamed of happy endings. One who would dance and sing in the spring time, and borrow her mother's silverware to throw tea parties with her toys. She would giggle, and smile a smile that could melt your heart. But no girl stays like this is District 2, Clove was no exception.
Clove was robbed of her honey sweetness the first time she saw the Hunger Games. They scared her at first, but her parents said that it was an honour to compete in the games, and they would be proud if their daughter was a victor. Clove, as any child would, wanted to make her parents proud. Proud of her, their only child. And she would do that by winning the games.
Clove learnt how to throw knives at the training centre, and would do so everyday. It became an obsession for her, throwing knives; it was like how she expressed herself. She ditched her dresses and hair ribbons, for jeans and tank tops, and always wore her hair in a high ponytail. Her toys were thrown away, except her stuffed teddy bear, which became buried by clothes and boxes of knife sets in Clove's closet.
She became a social outcast. She had no friends; she said she didn't need any. She said they only would distract her from winning the games. Her parents didn't mind her change of personality; in fact they loved her for it. They would always brag in town and say, 'That girl who throws knives, she's my daughter. Her name is Clove. We expect her to be a victor, she will be one.'
Clove had convinced herself that she would win the games, and bring pride and honour to her district. Her sweet dreams of fairytales turned into ones of her killing, and carving her name all over dead bodies.
It was such a shame, really. Clove could've grown up to be a sweet girl, one who always listened, someone who would be there for you. But instead she became vicious and lethal, she was unforgiving. This could've all been avoided. If it was, the rock wouldn't have ended her life.
But it doesn't even matter; because now, Clove is only a dead soul, floating around, trying to find her meaning in life, because she never did when she was living. Poor dead girl, her life was a somewhat cruel lie, a lie which changed who she was for worse.
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Ice Hearts
