Cato goes straight to his room before I can say anything to him. I'm not even sure what to say, so I slip in my room as well. Shutting the door and looking around at my surroundings, there's a huge luxurious looking bed; and everything anyone would ever want in a bedroom. If I wasn't about to get sent off to the arena in a few days, I might've enjoyed staying here.

Walking into the bathroom, I look at myself in the mirror. Hair pulled back in a ponytail, a loose fitting dress that doesn't help my small figure look any better. I strip it off and throw on a tank-top and sweatpants. I take a knife out of the dress pocket on the floor, and lay down on the bed, tracing my fingertips with the end of the blade. Not enough to cut in the skin, I'm just bored. And confused. And hopeless about all of this. The list can go on and on.

I end up staring at the scars on my wrists and arms, the scars my father gave me. Whenever I refused to go to the training academy, he'd make a new mark on my skin. They're less noticeable now, ever since I started training regularly at the academy. But the scars are still visible, permanent reminders of all the pain I felt after my mother's death, the things my father did to me out of grief for her death. He wanted me to win the Games, to bring him riches and fame to our family. Nothing else matters to him.

One day, I stood up to my dad and told him I wasn't going to train. But it was pretty pathetic, cause all he had to do was shove me up against the wall and cut me again. That time he also slashed my neck, which started bleeding badly, and I ran outside in the pouring rain to get away from him. It was raining hard, and I was already soaking wet by the time I got to an old tree, which I slumped down against; my tears adding to the cold wet feeling.

I saw a boy walking out of the academy and I remembered his name from school; Cato. His body was toned and fit even at his young age. He was 13; 2 years older than me, but he looked older than that. He must've seen me, because he came jogging over to where I was. "What's the matter, shorty?", he said cockily while flipping his hair aside which was sticking down on his head as a result of the rain.

I glared at him and told him to go away, but I doubt he could have heard me because of the muffled crying sounds I was making. Instead of leaving me there, he sat down next to me and grabbed my wrists, looking at them with wide eyes. "Who did this to you?", he asked concerned. "My father...", I said, sniffling. "He also did this-", I showed him the cut on my neck, which was still gushing blood.

"Why'd you let him?"

"What do you mean..! I can't do anything to stop him, I'm so...", I started making the crying sounds again and he put his hand over mine, maybe trying to calm me down. "Sure you can. Ever been to the academy?"

And that was how I started my training. Cato took me there the next day, and tried to get the trainers to let me in. At first they wouldn't, they said I was too young and small. I was 11 at the time, and somehow Cato convinced them to let me atleast try. Cato was popular at school, everyone already knew his name; he was one of the best in the academy, and at school. The girls loved him and the guys wanted to be him. I started throwing knives, and got good. Everyone knew I never missed a target.

Those memories all come back to me and I put my knife down. My only friend is going in the arena with me. Sure, he had plenty of friends; girls he went through quickly. I must mean nothing to him after all, since he volunteered after I got reaped. So he could win. Trying hard to ignore the memories of him comforting me when I was sad and broken, helping me train, being my friend. A good one, too. We helped each other get better, and I felt whole when I was with him. Frustrated, I get under the covers and try to figure out what's going to happen in the weeks to come.