A/N: I just started fanfiction and this is my first! I hope everyone enjoys it, and please review, I would love to know your thoughts!
This story is basically The Hunger Games from Cato's perspective and helps you understand him. I am changing some things in The Hunger Games, and am going to make it a little different. Enjoy!
Disclaimer: I don't own The Hunger Games or any of the characters except my original ones.
"Cato, wake up now!" I heard my mother call from the kitchen for about the third time. I groaned and rolled over, stretching out my arms. I lay there a few more minutes, taking in the nice warmth of my bed before climbing out into the frigid air that awaited me. I glanced out of the window and noticed the snow had begun to fall for the first time this year.
My mother flung the door open and started waving a wooden spoon at me as she yelled, "Cato! Get out of that bed right this instance! You know how angry your father will be if he has to wait on you for your training lessons!" My mother was right, my father would be furious with me if I was late to training. And with the reaping right around the corner, I needed to get as much training in as I possibly could.
I sighed and rolled out of bed. I walked over to my dresser and pulled on a plain gray t-shirt. I changed my flannel pajama pants for sweatpants and slid on a black hoodie over my t-shirt. I sluggishly walked into the kitchen, which was right outside of my room, and sat at the small wooden table. My mother sat a plate of blueberry pancakes in front of me and I devoured them quickly. All this training lately has gotten me constantly exhausted and famished. When I was finished I walked outside into the freezing snow, only to find my father setting up a target a long ways across the yard.
"Ready to fight son?" My father asked as he walked over to me. But before I could answer he hit me square in the jaw forcefully.
"Ow?" I said and gave him a confused look as I rubbed my chin. He smacked me hard on the back of the head.
"Always be ready to fight." He said sternly and went to punch me in the face again, this time I blocked and tried to strike back, but he blocked me.
This went on for some time until he finally got bored and wanted to move onto to something else. We walked towards the makeshift target that was shaped like a person with a red drawn on circle exactly where the heart would be, the kill shot. He started off with handing me a bow and three arrows. I shot them almost as fast as he'd set them in my hand. All three rested directly in the center of the heart. Next my father handed me a knife which I threw with swift precision and it also landed directly in the center. I was then handed a spear, which also landed where all the other ones had, on the heart. My father thought I was too close and that was why I was so accurate, so he made me move back several yards. He handed me another knife and spear and arrows, and even though I was much farther away than I had been before, I still hit clearly in the center. My father then handed me an axe. Axes are difficult to throw with complete accuracy because they are much heavier on one end then they are the other. I eyed up the target and threw with all my might. The axe landed half on the kill shot and half above.
My father sighed with frustration. "You can't be sure it will kill them if it lands like that Cato. And you know the reaping is in just a few days and what are you going to do if the only weapon you have once you get in the games is an axe? You can't throw them accurately." When I didn't answer he sighed again and said, "Go get the axe and keep throwing it until it hits directly in the middle, every time."
I threw the axe several more times until my father was pleased enough to move on. The next thing he had in mind was sword fighting, and we did that until it was time for supper and my mother called us in. My younger sister Delaney was already sitting at the table drawing a picture. Her curly blonde hair kept falling in her eyes as she tried to draw. I walked over to my four-year old sister and kissed her on the top of her head, she giggled and held out her arms. I scooped her up and brushed her hair out of her eyes. My father sat down at the table waiting for my mother to serve him. She brought him a full plate of food and sat it down in front of him. She quickly grabbed Delaney's drawings and moved them off the table. I sat Delaney back down and sat beside her as my mother brought us plates. My mother grabbed her own and sat down as well.
After a few moments of silence my mother finally asked, "How did training go?"
I just looked down at my plate, knowing my father would answer with how bad I had done. He always focused on everything I did wrong, and all the things I did right he never seemed to notice.
"Cato can't throw the axe accurately and didn't beat me in sword fighting or hand-on-hand combat." My father said simply with a hint of disappointment in his deep voice and put another big bite of food into his mouth.
"I got strong at throwing the axe before we came in, and we tied in both sword fighting and hand-on-hand fighting." I said matter-of-factly still looking down at my plate and scooping up a bite of mashed potatoes.
"You're still not accurate with the axe and you shouldn't be tying with me, you should be beating me! Tying in the games will get you nowhere!" My father said furiously and slammed his hand down on the table.
Delaney began to cry out of fright from our father. My mother went quickly to her and picked her up, shushing her. She took her into the other room to calm her down.
"Now look what you've done!" I yelled. "Don't you think it's bad that your own daughter is scared of you?" I asked, furious that he had acted that way in front of her. It was nothing new though, Delaney was always afraid of him.
My father stood up, knocking the chair over behind him. He leaned over the table and struck me across the cheek. Then he turned and stalked to his room, slamming the door behind him. I got up, rubbing my cheek and swearing under my breath. I grabbed the plates from the table and started cleaning up the kitchen.
