Twack.
I am frustrated.
Twack.
My district is currently a war zone and I'm not there.
Twack. Twack. Twack.
I stop when I realize I have thrown all the knives I have available. I take a deep breath. Knife throwing has always calmed me down. The sound of metal sinking into wood is satisfying.
I can feel eyes on me from different parts of the training room. I don't bother looking up, knowing the type of emotions I will see. Fear. Hate. Distrust. I woke up in the hospital about a week ago. I have barely interacted with people but from those few encounters, I know most of Thirteen do not like the people from Two. With the battle going on in Two and more citizens from my home district joining the rebellion in Thirteen, the split has been more obvious. We aren't very welcome here. They think we can turn on them any moment.
Clang.
The sound of metal hitting metal wakes me from my thoughts and makes me look to my right. There is a boy practicing his knife throwing too. He looks to be around my age, seventeen years old. He is dark-haired, skinny, and only a few inches taller than me. I watch as he throws another knife incorrectly and it painfully misses the wooden target, instead hitting a metal beam to the side.
The boy cringes at the sound.
We are in a beginner's class. Haymitch has gotten permission for me to be in the training room when there are limited weapons available and guards watching very closely. I have yet to speak with Coin.
Clang.
The boy has messed up again.
Clang.
He is holding the knives wrong.
Clang.
I hear laughter and turn to see a group of teens about our age. They are a stark contrast to the boy in front of me. While he has black hair, they mostly have blonde hair and fair skin. The group takes glances at him from across the room, the girls giggling when he misses and the boys smiling cockily.
I notice the dark-haired boy's jaw tick and his fists clench slightly as he continues training. He is aware of their ridicule.
Because I don't like the way that they look down on him, especially when they aren't much better, I find myself speaking, "You're holding them wrong."
The guy is startled by my voice. He turns to me, looks behind him, then back to me as if making sure it was him I was addressing. I can't tell from the nervous look in his eyes if recognizes me. Does he see me as another girl from Two or does he know my name too?
"The knives," I said. "You need to grip them more. Not like you're afraid of them."
He just stares at me.
I step forward and grab the knife in his hand before he can react. Without looking at him, I face his station and demonstrate holding the knife properly and throwing it. "Like that," I say holding the knife out to him.
He hesitates, looking at the weapon I offer and then to our right.
I follow his vision and see the group that was laughing earlier. Now, they have completely stopped their training to look at our corner of the room. They don't seem happy that I am interacting with the boy in front of me and watch him, waiting for his reaction.
I fix each of them with a glare. All but one go back to their training almost immediately. He has blond hair and blue eyes. He tries staring me down. Once I look straight at him, it takes two seconds for him to turn away.
Ha.
When I turn back to the dark-haired boy, he looks at me with a strange expression. I realize that I've been smiling smugly and have probably creeped him out a little so I put on a serious face and give him a pointed look.
It takes him a few seconds to process that I'm still holding out the knife to him, but then he jumps slightly, takes the weapon, and turns to his station.
"Align your elbow with the target."
He does this then throws the knife.
Clang.
"Try again," I say before he can feel disappointment.
He does and the knife hits the wood before falling to the ground with a thud.
"Better," I comment. "But with more force this time."
When the knife leaves his hand, I know it will stick.
Twack.
It doesn't hit close to the bullseye, but its an impressive shot nevertheless.
The boy grins at his success.
When he turns to me, the supervisor yells that training is over. I exit the room before everyone else.
I'm barely through the door when I feel a hand on my shoulder. I spin away from the hand immediately and face the dark-haired boy.
"Thank you," he says with a smile directed at me.
I don't respond. I notice the rest of the class has caught up to us. They are exiting the room, giving different reactions to the boy conversing with me. I hear their whispers.
"What's he doing?"
"Doesn't he know who that is?"
"—dangerous."
"I'm Eli," the boy says. "What's your name?"
"Remember her Games?"
"She was…"
"…ruthless."
Eli looks at me, waiting for me to answer. But I can't stop listening to the conversations around us. Doesn't he hear them?
"—violent."
"Bloodthirsty."
"Eli!"
"Bitch."
Eli turns at the sound of his name. Another dark-haired boy comes up to us followed by other kids our age. The group hesitates when they see me.
"Hey Thom," Eli says casually.
The boy, Thom, looks unhappy. He scowls at Eli and doesn't make eye contact with me. "What do you think you're doing," he hisses.
"What?"
"You shouldn't be talking to her."
Eli looks at me confused and even though my expression remains stoic, I feel pity for his not knowing who I am, for his trying to make friends with someone like me.
"That's Isabelle the Heartbreaker," a girl says, stepping out from the group. She glares at me with so much hate. "She's the District Two Victor from the 72nd Hunger Games."