Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games or its characters, Suzanne Collins does.
THREE YEARS OF AGE: Potatoes
I am handed my first weapon, a thick wooden stick about twelve inches long and as thick as my wrist. It's the most lethal thing I own at the age of three. The athletic-looking man presses it into my hands and tells me to mash a basket of potatoes to pulp. And so, I proceed with my assault.
I whack as hard as I can, smashing, squashing, and even taking them out one by one and stomping on them. Then the man descends on me and tells me to use only the stick and my hands.
I do as he says. I take out one potato, position it carefully and bring my stick down as hard as I can. Nothing happens, except for the potato rolling away.
It looks ugly and knobbly in the sunlight. I toddle over and whack it again. It remains intact, but this time stays put. I hit it again.
Nothing happens.
Frustration wells up in my chest and bursts out in a growl of anger. I hold the potato still with my left hand. With my right, I clutch the stick with the end pointing downwards. With force, I drive the base of the stick into the tuber, slowly, deliberately; making sure the stick impales the offending thing properly.
With vicious satisfaction, I see that the potato now has the stick driven deep into its middle. I yank the stick out. A deep, large crater has been formed.
The man walks over, peering at my handiwork. "Very good," he says, smiling. "Now you finish up this little bugger and there's the rest of the basket left, all for you." He saunters away, marking a huge tick on his clipboard.
I look at the rest of the potatoes. Then I look down at the damaged one.
It's a big basket.
-:-
SEVEN YEARS OF AGE: Glory
My father is at work today. I don't know what he does, but my mother says it's an important job. I believe her.
I'm big for my age. None of my classmates come up to my nose. It's funny how I have classes in the morning till two in the afternoon, then training from four to eight in the evening. Not everyone has training. It makes my arms sore and my back hurt. But it will be worth it, my teachers all say, because one day I could compete in the Hunger Games and win, bringing glory to the district.
This is repeated often. And I do want to compete someday; glory sounds nice. Nicer than potatoes, which I've hated since that day I was made to mash them up.
One day, a classmate asks me during lunch, "What is glory?"
I'm stumped. But I reply, "What do you think it is?"
She frowns at me. "I wouldn't ask if I knew, would I? The only glory I know is the morning glory, and that doesn't sound right."
I don't know what that is either. But I say scornfully, "You're stupid, aren't you? Fancy not knowing what glory is. Hasn't the school taught you anything? Stupid!"
Her eyes narrow and she turns away, finishing her lunch in silence. I smile triumphantly, having avoided a display of ignorance.
The next day, I find an upended, cheap, plastic cup on my desk in the classroom. I lift up the cup and find a beautiful, blue flower inside, resting on a scrap of paper. Scrawled on the paper are the words:
This is a morning glory, stupid. And return the cup or else I'll tell everyone that Cato Gronson doesn't know the meaning of glory.
I scowl and hide the flower and paper in the cup before anyone sees them. Not that they would dare to laugh.
After dismissal, I look around for the girl and find her hurrying out of the courtyard with a shabby bag slung over her shoulders.
Feeling distinctly annoyed, I run up to her and shout, "Oi! Wait a minute."
She stops, her face tight with impatience.
"Your cup," I say rudely, shoving it under her nose.
She takes it silently and stows it in her bag. Then, "I've found out the meaning of glory."
I can't help but ask what it is.
A scowl crosses her face. "I'll tell you tomorrow," she says. "I'm a bit short of time today."
Then she's off, running at full speed before I can comprehend what she said.
But she did keep her promise and gave me the full definition of the word the next day. It's long and complicated, full of words I have never heard of before. I don't ask how she knows.
I find her less annoying and stupid than she originally seemed, and she eventually tells me that I'm not that bad either. One way or another, we became friends. Grudgingly, perhaps. Slowly, definitely.
But we got there.
A/N: I read the Hunger Games series last year and watched the movie last week; it was amazing! The movie missed out some stuff, but that's what movies usually do anyway, so oh well. It was pretty decent, as adaptations go.
Cato had that bit of dialogue before he was killed, which I thought made him seem more sympathetic, so I was thinking about his background and how he became such a ruthless killer. I don't know if there's any other story which this is similar to, so if there is, please inform me.
Please review :)
