I was born to die.
That's one thought that's been haunting my mind since I had first learnt to talk. At first I had been terrified. But by now, I was ready. I wasn't exaggerating when I said die, by the way. It's not like, I was born to live and then die satisfied. I was born to be killed before I was eighteen. I was born to compete in the Hunger Games.
The origins of this suicide mission are simple—the 13 districts led a rebellion against the Capitol, lost, District 13 was destroyed, and now we must submit a girl and a boy to compete to the death in an arena as the Capitol watches and bets on who'll win. It's pretty sadistic really.
It's worse for the poorer districts like 11 and 12. They have no volunteers. Their tributes are just whoever Effie Trinket pulls out of the jumble of names. Here, someone's picked and almost always there's someone who's been training their whole life who isn't doing it for the person who was chosen, but for themselves. They want to bring pride to their district.
I started training with sticks when I was little. If I was selected, I wanted to stand a chance of winning. I didn't want a training score of 1 and then get killed in the bloodbath. Not that I would care much if I did. I'd be dead.
But the reaping's here. All I can think about is how no matter who is selected, I will volunteer. And then I'll win. And I'll make history. All that's going through my mind is volunteer, win, fortune. Those three words are the rest of my life. Those three words are all I must depend on.
But then I lose my train of thought. It goes right off the track because there, in front of me, is the most beautiful girl I have ever seen in my life. Small, tanned, and with perfect silky brown hair and a cream dress which showcases her beauty and modesty at the same time. She clearly does not know she has my attention.
Her name is Clove.
I know her from my training. She began only a year after I did. She does not tend to showcase many obvious talents, however, and so I have no high expectations for her survival in the Games.
Since her first day, I have spent a lot of my time just staring at her. She looks at me sometimes, too, but not the way I'd like her to. A lot of girls flirt with me during training, and smile at me, and ask me to help them improve their aim with a spear. And I oblige as best I can, but none of them appeal to me—not since the first time I saw her.
Guys count me lucky for attracting Eva's attention. They all want her, but I keep insisting I couldn't care less. They don't believe me. They see nothing wrong with her, everything right with her. How ironic. That's exactly how I feel about Clove. But not Eva. Never Eva. At least, not for me.
Eva's possibly the vainest person I have ever met. She's always batting her eyelids and prancing around the centre, giggling whilst she does. The guys always jeer at her, yelling crude compliments which she blushes at but makes the other girls grimace. Out of jealousy or disgust, I can't be sure.
Despite her obvious flattered persona, they say, she only has eyes for me. Once again, I tell them I hate her. Once again, they don't believe me.
Clove glances over every now and again, but most of the time she has disapproving eyes and a face that's looking for us to grow up and stop eyeing Eva. I think, for the first time, if she really is jealous. Jealous of Eva; jealous of the attention she gets.
I wonder how long Eva would last in the arena. Six seconds, tops. She's beautiful; even I'm not arguing, and desirable, sure. She's certain to get sponsors. But you need more than that to survive. You need to know how. You need to have skill. And Eva just doesn't. She still has three years of waiting to be drawn. And my guess is, no one will volunteer if it means getting rid of Eva.
Despite my tough exterior, I've never spoken to Clove. As far as I gather, she has a younger sister. I've seen her around. They have the same eyes; that's how I know. It may seem out there, but not to me. I'd recognise Clove's eyes anywhere. The way they shone even whilst waiting at the reaping. The way they could go from innocent to sharp in just less than a second. The way they always seemed brighter in the night, reflecting any light the moon provided.
The similarities between Clove and the girl did not stop at their eyes. Their faces were both covered in freckles, from their noses to their cheeks. How petite and vulnerable they looked in the midst of the district. How their eyebrows arches perfectly, inquisitively, over those perfect eyes themselves. And despite her sister only being three years younger, she already had Clove's seemingly carved-in scowl which, when it was upturned, formed a rather nasty smirk.
There was one very definite feature which separated them. The younger's eyes were not full of menace. They were not full of hope and resentment combined. They were full of a very obvious form of fear. Right then, it was clear that although Clove seemed to be no fighter, Mini Clove would easily crumble in the arena within the first second.
And with my feelings for Clove, came my protection directed at the little girl. I was both reluctant and unwilling to provide safety for anyone but myself, but I found I had to make Clove happy. I did care for her; despite my better judgement not to care about anyone on the off chance they may enter the arena and I'll never see them again. And despite the impression I gave, that much pain would cripple me.
As I stood in line with the other sixteen-year-olds, I saw Clove standing with Eva, though I was sure it wasn't by choice. As some Capitol weirdo rambled on in a shrill voice I stared at Clove. She was completely oblivious that I was looking at her. She was staring up at the stage, doing her best to not look at Eva as she whispered something in her ear.
She was doing a good job of ignoring her until she suddenly whipped her head around to stare at her. It looked like Eva repeated something, and then Clove looked back at me. Ashamed at having been caught pining for her, I quickly looked away, but it was too late. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Eva half-smirk, half-scowl in my direction, jealousy and satisfaction mixing together. Clove looked immediately back up at the stage, returning to pretending like Eva wasn't right there. I would give anything to know what she was thinking, but despite my lack of mind reading skills I knew that she was pointedly avoiding my eyes just as much as Eva's.
The words "Ladies first" drew my attention away from Clove. The long, bony hand sifted through the slips, all of which had a girl's name written on it. Four tiny slips in that bowl said Clove Clayfer. I was begging any other name to be drawn, any name except Clove's. I wanted Eva to be reaped, I wanted Mini Clove to be reaped; I wanted anyone—but her.
The high-pitched shriek then exclaimed, "Clove Clayfer!" and I swear, my heart stopped.
Volunteer! I begged mentally. Anyone, anyone, just volunteer! Please! I found myself desperate. I was tempted to volunteer myself, but then realised what that would look like, combined with my seemingly sudden interest in her not five minutes ago.
No one volunteered.
I spared a glance at Clove. Next to her, Eva was staring at her, her eyes playful. I did not see Clove's face from where I was, but I knew this was all over for me. She was going to die. I might be the one to do it. I was horrified. Clearly, I didn't have to kill her. Someone else could easily do that. But the thought of someone else hurting her was too much for me. The thought of settling down only to see her face in the sky, announcing her death, with me oblivious to who had done it or how it had happened, if she had screamed, if she had felt any pain—well, it was too painful.
I watched helplessly as Clove stood up on the stage and the Capitol person grabbed her hand, held it up as if in triumph and said some unintelligible to me. I tuned out pretty much until some little thirteen-year-old boy was reaped and someone behind me nudged me. I half-minded volunteered and found myself up there, too, standing right beside the girl I had least wanted there at that moment.
As we were ushered into separate rooms, I stared at the wall. She was on the other side. In only a week, she would be dead. I tried to hear her, but was met with silence. Either she was being quiet, or the walls were too thick. I personally didn't know which I'd prefer.
I hardly registered my parents arriving and hugging me and telling me to be brilliant. I was silent the whole time my brother was reminding me about how he won the Games. I was only responsive when a couple guys from the centre sauntered in because, really, they'd want me to be and know something was seriously wrong if I was moping about after bragging about this moment for months.
Sure, I had bragged. But that was before I would enter the arena as Clove's enemy and rival.
Time crept slowly. Despite my best efforts to act like nothing was wrong, one guy hung back a little while longer than the others. I could hardly tell them apart when I was myself, let alone a wreck like I was right now.
He said, "It's meant to be, Cato. She was reaped because you're meant to compete."
I shook my head, and almost saw how blank my own eyes looked. "If it was meant to be, I'd have been reaped too. I just signed her death sentence."
He patted me on the shoulder and then left. I supposed he had no argument and knew he couldn't get through to me even if he did.
Because I was right. I had just signed Clove's death sentence. Because of me, because of the faith my family has in me, she can't win.
So she will die.
And I know that will be forever on my conscience.
