Clove hated knives.
She hated them. Really and truly. Every trainer that she met with her entire life had commended her on her expertise with them, on her ability to hit the smallest mark from a thirty yard distance, impossible to everyone else, but she hated them. To her, knives were weak. They were powerful and they were ruthless, but weak. They were small. They proved her weakness, the weakness she was constantly reminded of by her mother, by her father, both strong, sword toting Victors of their own games.
She always wanted to be one of those girls who could tote around swords, or bows and arrows, or axes, or maces. Anything but knives, but she never was. She was too small, too weak. She tired to easily. So she became the best knife wielder in Panem.
All she wanted to do was prove herself. All she wanted to do was win the games with one sharp blow to the neck, a knife piercing flesh, causing a wound that would never be healed. She knew that she could do it. She envisioned it a thousand times. Walking cooly over to retrieve the knife, wretching it out of her dying opponent, watching blood pool on the ground as the dying tribute made every effort to stauch the flow. It was futile, of course. She would win. The voice would call out her name and pick her up in the hovercraft, victorious. She would go back to the Capitol completely unscathed and recount how the other tributes hadn't been able to lay a finger on her. Her victory would be marked down in history, she would remain in the hearts of the Capitol forever.
But she would do it with knives. With a small, weak weapon for a small, weak girl. That's what Clove was. That's what her father always called her. That's what he spit at her, late at night, when he was drunk and angry, drowning the horrors of his victory in the alcohol made so plentiful by his winnings. She hated knives. She hated that he hated them. She hated that they were always at the Cornucopia, giving her no option but to use them when she eventually entered the arena. The fact that she would win the games with knives became less of a dream and more of an inevitability, but nevertheless, she hated them.
They were her worst enemy and her best friend. Her harmatia and her tether to life. Her reason for giving up and every reason for pushing forward.
Knives.
Clove hated them.
Lol super short. XD
Someone PLEEEASSSE give me prompts. I'm begging you. I really want to write but I don't know what to write ABOUT. PPPLLLEEEAAASSSE! :)