A/N - (I do not own The Hunger Games or the characters in any way; all rights are reserved to Suzanne Collins.)
I'll Try
(Clove's P.O.V.)
I sit up on the bumpy mattress below me and run my hands over the uneven patches. My hair is tied into a low braid, and although I am mentally aware of what today is, my body has yet to accept it. As the thought hits me, I go rigid. My back shoots straight up and my spine become a rod as my stomach churns and sickness hits me, suddenly.
My Mother is still sleeping, and my father... I look across the room and there he is. A bottle of liquor is held limply in his hand and his chin is resting on his chest as he sleeps. He's a drinker. I had always denied my father's addiction, but last night he had drunk so much he'd passed out in the chair he sits in now. Angry tears threaten to make an appearance as a boy about a foot and a couple of inches taller than me passes our small, shabby cabin with his father talking confidently next to him.
"Volunteers," announces the father, "Are very brave – proud to be honouring their districts. Are you one of these people, Cato, or would you rather let your district look down on you in shame?"
Cato.
I'd seen the boy before. He'd always have a cocky grin on his face; his attitude was no better. However, I was no better. At the knife station in our training centre, he would boast about how good his aim was – how far he could throw the knives. It wasn't until he had met me he had realised he was wrong. I could throw the knives double his distance; get a bull's eye every time no matter what angle I threw them at. And I could see the competition in his eyes.
Maybe if he was reaped this year, District 2 would win again this year. With Cato's brute strength and incredible skill with a sword, he could and gladly would, kill anyone in the arena that got in his way.
My father stirs but does not wake and I'm glad he has not woken. My mother, a kind woman living in a cold district, finds relief in the hours my father is not home. When he gets too drunk it's usually her that gets the brunt of his actions. She tries to hide the angry swelling, red marks and bruises, but she can't, and although I wish I could help her, there's nothing I can do.
Our District's reaping happens half an hour after District 1's; 12:30pm, and so the people in The Capitol can stagger the reapings and stream in live onto televisions all over Panem. It's the same in every district from what I can see from the reapings. The twelve year olds are grouped towards the back and the eldest kids grouped towards the front. My father is the person that usually works me to oblivion and back. Every morning at approximately 05:00am, he wakes me up to take me training. If the session goes well my day goes well. If my session goes terribly wrong, so does my day. He wants a fighter, a strong woman, and that's why whenever I see Cato, I know that my father would prefer – no, deserve him – better than me.
This year I'll be two groups away from the front and two groups away from never having to do this again. Two groups unless... I change my thoughts onto my activities for the day.
Do the washing, hang it up on the line outside our house.
Gather the water for our meal tonight.
Make sure my little sister is up and ready by twelve-thirty.
She's not old enough to understand fully what's going on. Just turning eight, she's all I have left besides my mother and father. My little sister, Willow, is so small and sweet, I sometimes wonder how I could have become as bitter and sadistic as I have. She trains, yes, she trains. She's almost as good as I was when I was her age, although she believes it's all fun and games at this point, still completely unaware of what she's being prepared for.
"Clove?" A small voice whispers through the air and a little hand is placed on top of mine. Tiny feet dangle over the edge of the bed, hardly anywhere close to the floor. "Why are you sad?"
I look down into my little sister's face. Her eyes are heavy with sleep and a yawn consumes her so I can see the gap in her gums where she's recently lost a tooth. I cup her face briefly before stroking her hair, soothingly. "I'm not sad," I answer, softly. "I'm just thinking of things."
"What things?" I smile at her, a smile only she can draw from me; a genuine smile.
"Things you shouldn't worry yourself about," I reply, picking her up and placing her on my lap as my arms wrap around her tummy and place a kiss on her head. "Now," I sigh, as the sun rays begin to slop steeper, "I think it's time you go back to sleep."
"But I'm not tired!" she protests.
I hush her, trying to keep my father from waking. "Then do you wanna help me?"
A smile spreads gladly across her face and she jumps to her feet, running over to the basin on the wooden stool. "Do my hair?"
I nod and she places the basin on the floor, sitting down eagerly. Running my fingers through her hair, I take a brush and run it through her brunette curls. She hums a tune as I go, her breath hitching now and then as I pass through a knot. "I'm sorry, my little flower," I apologise.
"I'm a big girl," she replies.
I take her curls and pin them all separately onto the top of her head so she has curls running down the back of her head and around the front. It's something I learnt from my mother which I know Willow loves. "Now, be a good girl and go and get dressed."
Nodding, my little sister totters back into the small back bedroom and closes the door silently. My chest feels heavy as I change into my reaping clothes. Unlike the other girls, I prefer to wear trousers and a fitting top with a jacket over the top. My boots come halfway up my calves and I tuck a knife into the right boot, determined that although it's reaping day, I'll get some training done before I'm herded like cattle into the town square.
Satisfied, I open the door to my sister's room where she's fighting with the buttons of her jacket. Without any words I kneel down before her and undo the buttons she's managed to do up with mismatching holes.
"Thank you," she says and places a kiss on my cheek.
The day threatens to get the better of me and I shake my head, before picking Willow up and placing her on my shoulders. "Ready?" I call up.
"Ready," she answers, her little hands clutching at my shoulders.
We pass the washing on the way out and I grab it, Willow's nails digging tightly into my shoulders so that she doesn't fall off. Once outside, I grab her from my shoulders and she goes straight to work, pinning up the clothes I wash on the line via the little stall she stands on. I watch her little face turn slowly red as she continues her hard work, and think about how by this afternoon, I might never see her face again.
~ XOX ~
We get a lot of work done by the time the sirens blare out to signal that the reaping is to begin. Scrawny arms wrap around my waist like a vice and I stop because I don't want to cry in front of her.
"Willow," I say demandingly, "You have to let me go and meet Mum back in the house."
"No!" She whines.
"Yes," I retort, sharply. "Go meet Mum and we'll walk down together."
Willow looks up at me with tears in her eyes. My mother isn't allowed to shield her from the games each year, and so she knows what today means; it's the day where 'somebody gets chosen and never comes home again.' And it makes me so angry to know that these little kids have to watch people they know get slaughtered each year.
"Go on now," I repeat more urgently as the sirens sound again.
My Mother must've woken up while we were collecting the water because her hair's done up in a bun and she's wearing a yellow dress that stops just before her knees. It's not too short and it's not too long – it's perfect. My Father comes out next looking as presentable as he can, which means his shirt's tucked in and doesn't contain stains from alcohol consumption. He looks distant, uninterested – bored. My mother's fear is clear in her eyes as I give her a reassuring smile. My name has been put in multiple times today because of Tessearae. I may come from district 2, but we're not wealthy... at all.
"It's going to be alright," I mouth, because I can't bear to worry her either further. False promises are better than empty promises.
I take me little sister's hand and walk calmly past the other small houses. Her finger nails dig into the top of my hand and her knuckles go white with the effort she takes in this simple task. It gets to the point where we're filtered off and my mother has to pick Willow up and lead her away from me because she won't let go.
"You'll see her later," my mother comforts her wailing form.
But will she? I think as I queue behind the line forming before the table of peacekeepers. I give them my finger and a fine needle pricks the skin which forms a little red dot which the men in white take quickly.
Clove Mackeby, 16 Y/O, eligible for reaping.
I snatch my hand away and quickly make my way to the roped off area where other sixteen year olds stand waiting. Although their faces are all perfectly masked, I can still see the terror of being chosen fresh in their eyes. It's the same with me, but I refuse to let it show too much. I'm a career, after all.
An orderly line of people make their way out from the justice building; the mayor, District 2's escort, and Brutus, our mentor for this year's Hunger Games. They have to alternate our mentors each year because many are still alive and get jealous if one mentor does it longer than the other. I look over my shoulder and spot my mum stood at the back just behind the rope that separates me from her. My little sister sucks her right thumb from where the needle cut her skin. I can picture what it would've said.
Willow Mackeby, 8 Y/O, not eligible for reaping.
And thank God she isn't. Because I know I couldn't stand it if she were.
I turn my head back to look at the stage where our escort stands at the podium. Crystal is wearing a purple wig which is far too heavy for her head, and with every step she takes, she loses her balance and swerves off to the side slightly.
"Hello, and welcome to the seventy-fourth annual Hunger Games reaping!" The atmosphere becomes so heavy it hurts to breathe and I wish she'd just hurry up and get it over and done with because then I can be with Willow again. "Today we will pick one courageous young man and woman to represent District 2." She pauses, taking her gloves off to reveal five perfect nails painted the same colour as her hair. "Now. Who will it be?" Her eyes swoop over the audience before she stops and looks at the bowl with the girls' names in, a sly smile on her face.
"Ladies first," she trills, excitedly.
Everyone inhales at the same moment as she places her right hand into the bowl. No-one dares to exhale until she crosses back over the stage and stands back at the podium. Her finger work quickly at unfolding the small piece of paper and when everyone thinks she's about to say something, she pauses again.
My hands curl into fists and I'm so desperately hoping that it's not going to be me.
"Clove Mackeby!" The name sounds wrong coming from Crystal's mouth. It's not me. It can't be me.
The girls around me are staring at me and making a wide. But it can't be me.
"Clove, come on up, dear," our escort repeats.
And the devastation hits so quickly, the breath has gone from my body until I'm gasping for air. Maybe someone will volunteer, I think, because here in District 2, volunteers are very common; for the boys at least.
I take the steps carefully, because I'm not sure how long I'll be able to stand when I finally see my sister standing at the back, her small fingers curled around our mother's hand.
"Clove!" A small voice pipes up. "Clove!" It repeats, making me turn around to face her.
My little sister's running up the path towards the stage, but someone stops her as she gets just a foot away from me. I look up to find my mother taking her back up in her arms and mouths for me to go up. I continue up the steps and find my place next to Crystal.
"What excitement!" She drawls, moving over to the podium again. "Barely containable," she mutters.
Uncontainable for her, horribly disgusting for me.
"And now, time for the boys!"
I look into the audience and Cato catches my eye straight away – that signature smirk on his lips and his eyes alight with fire. If it were anyone I didn't want to be left to do hand to hand combat with in the arena, it was Cato.
"Alexandrus Arvina!" I see the boy before everyone else does. He's small, but has broad shoulders and built very well. He lives just a couple of cabins away from me with his two younger brothers. My shoulders relax as I look back to Cato and realise I won't be fighting him when the time came. Instead, I had Alex who in my eyes was no match for me. I could take him down with a single knife.
But the atmosphere just becomes oddly thicker as the thought leaves me, and suddenly there he is – Cato. Lunging forwards, he smiles directly at me, and I know that my chances of coming out are slim.
"I volunteer!" He declares, the greedy glint in his eyes pronounced so obviously against the green flecks in his brown eyes. "I volunteer as tribute."
The boy up on stage looks relieved at the statement and unlike me, he can take the easiest exit from the stage, happy that he can live another day, see his brothers, his girlfriend, his mother and father and most importantly, his future.
Cato takes his place next to me, but since that day I can no longer bear to be close to him; nor can I look at him directly in the eye, because what happened should have never have happened. People like Cato and I do not mix, we never have.
My father above all people reminded me daily what people like Cato's family were like. "Always smug, arrogant and damn right rude," he'd say. "Strutting around as if they owned the place. If his family didn't have the money they did he wouldn't be so confident."
Of course, Cato didn't have that much money either, but with his father being a peacekeeper, his family always managed to keep their heads above water which is what people in my area couldn't do so often. We barely had enough to scrape by with each month.
But that didn't stop him that one night.
I shoot a glimpse up at him from the corner of my eye. His face is shown on the multiple screens put up around the town square and claps are being heard from the crowd.
"Our tributes!" chirps Crystal, her painted face crinkled with lines of a smile.
Cato offers his hand out to me. I stare at it for a long time before allowing myself to join hands and shake. His hand is familiarly strong and warm, just like the night when...
I stop again and step away slightly as the thought hits me. Cato's smile fades slightly and I bow my head as our escort places her hand on the small of my back and leads us through the doors of the justice building. Cato. Cato's my ally, victim, killer and fellow teenager.
White figures lead me into a separate room from Cato and the door locks behind them. I find the closest seat and sit down, my hands stroking the material in a comforting fashion because I don't want to cry, anything but cry.
The window's curtains are drawn, but I open them in time to see the reaping crowd disperse back into daily life. My mother stands at the back of the group stroking Willow's hair, my father behind them shakes hands with Cato's father, a smile on both their faces. And I suddenly realise where Cato's attitude must have come from. Despite being full of himself because he's handy with a sword, his father also struts around with the same attitude. It's not at all surprising when I take it into account. His father being peacekeeper must make him feel safe, but as I stare at my mother and sister, I wonder what he feels like, knowing he'll probably never even see his home again after today.
But I'd be with him, I think, suddenly. And he loves me.
I draw back as Cato's father looks up in my direction, sitting on the furthest arm chair away from the window I can find. Cato.
The knife is barely out of the dummy's stomach when Cato stops me by placing his hand over the handle of the knife. I look up, annoyed that he has intruded on my private training session. A grin, slight but still there, decorates his face and brings out the one dimple on his right cheek.
"What do you want?" I mutter, throwing his hand off my knife and placing it back in the belt around my waist. I go to walk away, but he stops me.
"That was pretty impressive." He approves. "Do you mind if I ask you to show me how you do it?" I smile, running my tongue over my teeth before turning to look at him.
"And what, give all my tricks away. I think I know better than that." I answer, crossing my arms over my chest.
"Come on," he encourages. "I can show you things too."
"Like what?" I laugh, lightly. "Your spear's as big as me."
"Like this," he replies.
And I'm not ready for it, because by the time our chests are pushed together, his lips are on mine and his hands are in my hair, tugging and pulling as I allow the kiss to deepen. I don't know why, but I feel as if I need this too, and as I allow the kiss to become more than just a spontaneous event, I realise I'm actually enjoying it. As his fingers work to loosen the braids, my hands run down his chest before I place them on his shoulders and dig my nails into his tender skin. Breathless, we pull away.
"What was that?" My voice seems too high and shock is still coursing through me as he tucks a loose strand of brown hair behind my ear.
"That was my first training lesson." And then, as if nothing has happened, he walks away from me.
I debate whether to go after him, but I stop when a figure passes through the doors. "That was my son," the figure says, slowly walking towards me. "And you've led him on."
I step back, intimidated by the man. "I-I n-never knew this w-was-
I'm cut off by Cato's father's voice. "Never knew," he laughs, walking in a circle around me. "I'd like to think that." His eyes scan me from head to toe. "It's always the same."
I tighten my hold on the knife in my belt and it doesn't go unmissed. A smile flutters past the man's lips and he shakes his head. "Don't even try."
His words have two meanings. One: don't ever try to take Cato's heart. Two: never try to win against the people who oppress you.
So when the doors to my cell open and Cato's father walks in, I have no idea if he's come to give me some advice, or demand I stay as far away from his son as possible. I look him in the eye, and surprisingly, a sly smile passes my dry lips.
"Oh, I'll try," I say. And with those words, his face falls as he realises he no longer has the control.
A/N – I really hope you all like this! Drop a review and tell me what you think!
Thanks, Katie1995. :)