What's In A Name: The Untold Story of Cato

Part I: My Father's Speech

"You're vicious, you got that? You are a vicious, bloodthirsty killing machine. You do not feel anything. You kill. It consumes you. It is all you are. Cast away any moment where you felt regret, guilt, or compassion. Emotions will only weigh you down. You will love no one. Love makes you weak. You will never hear 'I love you,' not from your mother and not from me. You will be famous, people will adore you, but they will never love you. It is not your job to make people love you. It is your job to bring honor to your district. It is your job to kill until you are the last one standing. And should you fail, you will not die as my son. You will die a failure, and I will not remember you. Do I make myself clear, Cato?"

I knew I would fail him before I even entered the arena. I knew I had already failed him the moment she looked at me.

My father, the tall chiseled man with the cold gray eyes, had given me that speech every night before I went to sleep. I had memorized every word of it. I had even written it down on a piece of paper and kept it hidden under my pillow. Sometimes, I would pull it out and fold it so that only the words "I love you" were visible. I would try to remember the way my father said it in the speech, try to isolate it so that I could hear just the forbidden words. It was the only time I had ever heard the expression, and I clung to it.

I was six years old when he started the tradition. I was six years old and I had never known my father's touch. But that day, the first time he recited his legendary Hunger Games speech, he placed his hands on my shoulders. I still remember it. The sheer power of his grip, the roughness of his skin. The hard, unforgiving look in his eyes. I was captivated. My six-year old self was consumed with a longing to make him proud, a longing that never went away. When he had finished, I stood up on the bed and shouted with all the determination I could muster, "I'll kill them all! I'll kill everyone and I'll be the victor!"

For a moment, I thought I saw a flicker of pride in his eyes. But it disappeared in a second, and he opened his mouth and laughed at me. The laughter cut through my six-year-old skin like a thousand burning hot knives. I never spoke another word about winning. I learned that night that my father didn't want words. Words were of no value to him if they did not translate into actions. So I trained. I trained from the pale light of dawn until the amethyst gloom of dusk. Days off did not exist for me. When I wasn't at the academy, I was wielding weapons in the yard. I was lifting weights. I was running the entire perimeter of the district. I was reading my father's books about weapons and assault tactics. And each night I would be in bed at exactly eleven o'clock, ready to receive the speech that broke my childhood into pieces.

And then the day came for me to volunteer. If I wasn't selected before, I was to volunteer when I reached 16 years of age. "A prime age, 16," my father would always say, "A prime age to kill."

I took my place in the square. I waited patiently, standing tall and still. A boy's name was read. To this day I do not remember it. I have no idea whose place I had taken, whose life I had saved. All I remember is my mouth opening and shouting the words. My tone was strong, commanding, and confident. I knew my father would be pleased.

And then I was on the stage, smiling at the cheering crowd. The girl named Clove, whom I had took notice of many times at the academy, was standing beside me, grinning. Her brown eyes sparkled as she looked over at me. Sparkled with bloodlust. What a pair we would make in the Games.

I would never admit to myself that one of the main reasons Clove stood out to me was that the word "love" was in her name. Even here, even in this vicious, unfeeling district that proudly raised murderers, the forbidden word had somehow crept into this girl's name. It thrilled me, this small realization.

At first, I feared I might feel something more for her than a general appreciation of her skills and her name, but when I looked at her and searched inside myself, I knew I had nothing to worry about. I found the same hollowness in my chest that I had felt ten years ago when my father had laughed in my face at my naïve declaration. She was just the girl with the knives, my future ally. The fact that I would have to kill her to win was of no consequence to me.

But then again, nothing was.

End of Part I