Authors Note: Clove is by far my favourite ever tribute, so here's a drabble in her memory.
Disclaimer: Clove belongs to Suzanne Collins and (arguably) Isabelle Fuhrman, one of the most talented young actresses out there
That girl lying silently in the coffin just can't be Clove. This pale, fragile doll with the dented skull is obviously some sick joke from the Capitol. My sister would never let the world see her looking so vulnerable. Her face wouldn't be alabaster and solemn; her lips would be curled in her trademark smirk, and she's roll her jade eyes at our tears, at the fact we believed she might lose. Her body wouldn't be so rigid and frozen; she would move with the same fluid grace that ended so many lives in the arena, sliding effortlessly from the crude, wooden box. The room wouldn't' echo with deafening silence; Clove would scoff at us.
"Seriously? After all those years training, you honestly thought I'd let myself be killed by a rock?" she'd say cockily, absent-mindedly toying with one of the knives that were her perpetual companions.
This isn't the way things are supposed to be. Clove should be standing as victor with Cato by her side, instead of The Girl on Fire and her useless Lover Boy. Laughter should be ringing through the streets of District 2 as people finally stop starving, wearing their brightest clothes to welcome home our victors. But besides the crisp, white uniforms of the Peacekeeper's, District 2 is clad in black. The piercing silence is only broken by the sobs of those who mourn, and the soft thud of claying piling upon her coffin.