There Were Twenty-Two Others
Year by Year
Year 1
He's the average one-year-old, just bigger, blonder. Oh, and he started walking at eight months.
Year 2
He's said his first word: Vol-unn-teeeee-er. He's started to run too.
Year 3
He's started demanding more time outside. His tricycle has long since been splattered with mud and is lying desolately in the garage. He uses his miniature 'motorcycle' now. He seems to like the foam dagger which was his birthday present. Or maybe he just likes hitting the other kids with it. He still hasn't touched his paints or crayons.
Year 4
He has to go to school now, but he still refuses to write properly. He was put in the 'special' class, but a few bites and hits from him change his teacher's mind. He's been tested for the academy. His genes and his appearance grant him an easy a lot of potential.
Year 5
He's managed to outfight his fellow five year olds in the Academy test. He has finally picked up his crayons, but the pictures are so violent that they're hurriedly taken away. He can't be taken out of the Academy. He's signed a contract, stating that the penalty for breaking off his commitment will result in punishment. His parents don't know what to do with him.
Year 6
He's fuming mad. His parents haven't sent him off to the Academy yet. He's only allowed to start training when he turns eight, so why does he have to be shipped off to the Academy? They ask. Don't they know anything? It's cooler there. And they start illegally training at six. He doesn't want to be behind his fellow trainees when he legally joins at the age of eight. So for the first time, he starts to plan.
Year 7
He's done it. He's run off to the Academy. He doesn't like the bow and arrows much. It takes to long to string and aim. Wouldn't it be easier to swing a sword and be done with it? He doesn't understand the girls who crowd the bow station, and he supposes he never will.
Year 8
He's mastered all the stations. The newest Victor, Dyonce Eleusini, has personally told him that when the time comes, she'll make sure that he'll be the official District 2 male volunteer for the 74th Games. He decides that he likes her much more than Brutus who chides him for not practicing his knife throwing. But how can he throw knives when she is there? She's better than him, and he's older than her. So he pretends that the knife throwing station doesn't exist.
Year 9
The Academy is his life now. It's the only thing keeping him from going to the community home, so he trains hard, or as hard as he can, to avoid being kicked out. He even does his homework. It's all because his parents disowned him. When he finally went home, they pretended they didn't recognise him and called the cops on him for 'harassing' them. The only thing that saved him from the community home was the Academy. What sent a ice-cold shard into his heart was the little two year old boy that peeked out from behind his mother's legs.
Year 10
He's really training now. He eats, trains, goes to collect his homework, finishes his homework, and sleeps. The only reasons he does his homework are 1) He wants to stay at the Academy, and that requires at least a B minus, and 2) He will be assessed on psychical, mental and emotional strength when the volunteering tests take place.
Year 11
He's starting to really have muscles. He's growing into his form. Girls finally take notice of him. He doesn't know what to think of them.
Year 12
He's the boy. And he plans on staying the boy. Too bad there isn't an it girl for him.
Year 13
A teenager! He's finally a teenager! The lanky brunette boy who hangs by the bow and arrows warn him that thirteen is unlucky. He doesn't care until he breaks his left arm after falling from the tree-climbing area. He hasn't gone near the boy or the trees since. But he sure as hell isn't gonna knock on wood. And he finally realises how harsh training is. He still has to train as usual, actually harder, as a punishment for his broken arm and carelessness. Oh, and he's watching her.
Year 14
She's named Clove, he hears. She's rumoured to be a sure shoo-in for the 76th games. He doesn't believe them until he sees her throw knives again. If it's even possible, she's improved since the last time he's seen her throw them.
Year 15
He's started throwing knives. He's decent, but she still beats him. When she laughs at him, he challenges her to a sword-fighting contest. He beats her, but she still laughs, like he's pathetic for wanting to up a little girl that's younger than him by two years. He's sure he hates her.
Year 16
He's starting to be obsessed with her. It's just cause he hates her, he convinces himself, but that reasoning comes apart when he realises that he screams Clove instead of Natalie or Ophelia or whatever girl he's fucking when he comes. He doesn't know what to think. Then he realises he knows nothing about himself. He's realising a lot this year.
Year 17
He likes her. He admires her. He's gonna kiss her. But before he can, she gives the trainers an ultimatum: "I'm only gonna continue to be at the Academy if I can volunteer at the 74th Games." He's lost when the trainers say: "Fine." But he understands. She's the best female the Academy has produced in a long time. But he doesn't agree. But the District Two male volunteer for the 74th Games doesn't have a say in the decision. At least they're sort of friends. Maybe friendly rivals is a more suitable term.
Year 18
He's sure he really, really, really, likes her. He's afraid to tell her though. It's laughable to the bystander. He, Cato, is afraid of a little girl? But to him it isn't. She's holding his heart. But he soon pays for his fear.
She's gone, just because he miscalculated the distance. "Cato! Cato!"
"Clove! Clove!"
She calls for him. He calls back.
She's shaking, and trying to stay alive. He calls for her to stay, but she's a shadow, merely flitting away. This time, though, she's slipping through his fingers. She's going. She's going. She's going. She's gone, and she's taken his crooked heart along with he's slipping into pain a few days later, he suddenly feels relief when he finally sees her face. Then he lets go, and he's gone with the blast of his cannon.
