Cato's Story

What am I doing? I don't know.

My arm around Peeta's neck.

Him clawing at my arm.

Katniss pointing her arrow at me.

What's going on?

"Shoot me and he goes down with me."

A male voice. But not Peeta's... It's mine. I must be crazy.

I can see Katniss's muscle strained tightly. She's thinking. I'm not. I'm acting on my instinct. My killer instinct. My body's controlled by he beast inside me. I'm helpless.

'One more kill,' it whispers. Making me tighten my grip around Peeta's neck, turnin his lips blue.

No, I think. I want to stop. I want to be myself when I die. I don't want to be the Capitol's Cato. I'm not going to kill him. But why is it then, that I'm not letting go of Peeta, a triumphant smile set on my lips?

'Kill him," it's the beast again. Or is it? What if I'm the beast? What if it's not seperated any more? Cato, and the bloodthirsty one. The same thing.

Concentrate. What do I do? Let him go. You're going to die anyway.

'Just one more,' it hisses. 'Death. You know you like the word.'

A wierd sensation. On the back of my hand. A deliberate X.

Suddenly, I realize. But Katniss realizes it exactly one second before me. My smile drops immediately.

Before I can process any more thoughts, an arrow is already piercing my hand. I cry out, and release Peeta reflexively. Or was it? Maybe it was intended to. Maybe it was my last will. My last hope to be saved.

I'm falling. I wait until my back hits the ground. Mutts everywhere. Pain I've never endured before. Pain I've never thought was possible to be felt by a human.

Pain. Pain. Pain. Fear. Fear of feeling pain. Fear of dying. I struggle to free myself, but I know that I have no hope. So instead, I stare into the Fire Girl's eyes. Begging for a mercy shot. Understanding me, she releases her arrow.

'Cato do not beg. He kills,' it's the voice again. But I ignore it, waiting for the arrow to free me.

I think of Clove. Will she cry? Will she smile? Or both? Or... Maybe she doesn't feel the way I do about us. Maybe I'm just one of her tools for the game.

The arrow flies across the space between two of us. But to me, it looks like Clove's hand, reaching out for me.

Soft brown hair and energetic eyes. Delicate fingers and beautiful lips. I melt into her embrace. Warmth instead of coldness. Pleasure instead of pain. Happiness instead of fear.

I'm Cato. Just the way I wanted to be. Not the cold blooded killer. Because I understand what the games are. And I understand what Clove means to me. Here with Clove, I don't have to pretend.

"I told you to win," she says, but she's smiling.

"But you're happy."

"Guess I'm too selfish."

"Wierd, I was going to say it's because you love me too much."

I expect her to say something cocky back, but instead, she laughs and asks me if I'm ready.

Swollowing, I nod. I'm not afraid anymore. I silently say good bye to the arena, the cameras, and the two victors.

"Don't be afraid," she tells me.

"I'm not."

And it's the truth.

So that's it. The story's over, but if you want me to write stories about other tributes, just review or message me. Thanks for reading!