Everyone dreams of paradise. I did too, once. Long ago in a place far away. I was sane once, my thoughts travelled along the path of my mind in the same fashion that everyone else's did. But the time for sanity has long passed. I am ruthless. I am a killer. My joy comes from the blood of the innocent, my life from the death of others. My name is Clove.
Born and raised in District 2, participating in the Hunger Games every year is considered an honour. It's a way to show our superiority to the other districts, and that we have favoured with the Capitol. The morning of the reaping is ringing with excitement, the district is buzzing as children prepare for a moment that could change their lives. I am the same. I pull on my lavender dress and put my shoulder length black hair back with a headband. I suppose I am considered pretty within my district, but the thought is rarely heeded. It won't matter today. My grey eyes burn. Today I volunteer for the Hunger Games.
Do not misunderstand, I am no fool. I know the odds. I think of them constantly. I knew them two years ago as well, when my twelve year old brother was selected for the games. Layden was selected, and of course, like every other stupid child in or district, he thought his skills where superior. He declined any offer of volunteering. I knew he was dead. He was put into an arctic arena, where the Capitol drained the will to fight from him right in front of our eyes. I watched, as day after day the cold ate away at him. Finally, on the tenth day, a little girl from district 12 slit his throat as he slept. The blood, his blood, stained the snow red. My decision was made that moment. I will become a tribute. I will avenge him. And I will kill every God damned son of a bitch they throw at me.
Mallory Verdwig, our district escort, stands on a stage in front of our justice building. I recall last year, I volunteered as tribute taking the place of a 15 year old girl who was reaped, but she declined. She died at the hands of the male district 4 tribute, who had turned on the other career tributes early on. He ended up winning the games. I was seventeen then. I am eighteen now and this is my last chance. If I am not reaped, then all I have to hope for is that whoever is will chose me as their replacement. Not likely here.
Mallory, a stout woman, places her hand over the bowl, smiling like a toad she drones the same phrase they quote every reaping, "May the odds be ever in your favour." I wince. I desperately hope that the odds will be in my favour, and allow me the chance to enter that arena. Since my brother's death, I have been obsessed with it. I suppose this is where I lost my mind. Death to me has become an art. Something to be experimented with, to flirt with. I find the most effective way to draw out death is knives. The blades fascinate me. How can one prolong the dying, and draw out the suffering? I have it down to a science, and knives are my tool.
Mallory finally draws a slip of paper out of the giant glass bowl, and I hold my breath. She pauses and reads out,
"Laria Dawnbrig."
I want to curse and lose my temper. Not Laria. She will never pick me. She was my brother's friend. She won't understand why I have to do this. I push my way to the front and stare her dead in the face. She looks afraid. Like by some chance, this year there will be no volunteers. Laria was always kind and gentle, keeping my brother in line. She wouldn't last one minute in the arena. I wait in silence, anticipating the moment where Mallory will call for volunteers. She waves her hand over the glass ball once more, and darts in like a bird seizing a fish. In a high clear voice, she reads out,
"Cato Pollreis."
I raise my eyebrow, and my face frowns impulsively. Cato. Massive. I don't know him well, but I know him well enough that he will be a formidable opponent in the arena. He has a handsome face and is brave to no end, I'm sure this will win him sponsors. And I know for a fact that he will decline any offer of replacement.
With the initial reaping done, Mallory calls out finally for female volunteers. I immediately thrust my arm out to Laria, begging, pleading for her place. Her eyes, full of fear, are locked on me. I know there is an inner battle going on in her mind, and in the rucus of females crowding around to volunteer, she is becoming unfocused. I feel my chance slipping away and I call out without thinking,
"Layden! Please for Layden!"
Sudden silence. I have Laria's full attention, and apparently now that of the whole district. In a sudden whoosh, she has grasped my forearm, fire burning in her eyes now. It is customary that when a replacement is chosen that the initially reaped pull the chosen up onto the stage by the forearm, and all of a sudden I'm there. Her expression says it all as she descends from the stage. Make it count.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you District 2's tributes for the 74th annual hunger games, Clove Shutter and Cato Pollreis!"
I sit in my holding room, awaiting the few people I know to come wish me luck before my departure. My parents won't be dropping in. I know this, and yet it still slightly pains me. I swallow the pain and replace it with anger. Those idiots. The worst thing they ever did was get together. My father is a peacekeeper for district eight; he has been since I was a little girl. After my brother's death, my mother also went off to become a peacekeeper. I haven't seen her since. Nor do I care if I ever see her again. This isn't about them. Maybe if I'm lucky they'll get to watch me slaughter the children that live in the districts that they've grown to love. If the odds are in my favour.
The door creaks open and in walks Laria. I raise my eyebrow, not really surprised. She stares silently at me for a whole minute, statuesque at the door. Finally she pads over to me and grasps my hand. My initial instinct is to snarl and pull away, but I don't. She opens my hand a drops a small braided piece of string, barely enough for a necklace. On it is attached a wooden charm, with the name Layden carved on the back. I now have my district token. She whispers a small "Thank you," before shuffling out the door and leaving me in silence. I tie the string around my ankle and finger the wood. I am visited by no one else.