7.

When Blood-lust Is Fueled

The dangerous occasion;

When blood-lust is fueled

Scream, scream loudly for more

Kill, kill like never before


"Blood, guts, fun with knives. Die for me and I'll die for you. Won't you die for me? And I'll die for you." Fun With Knives, Velvet Acid Christ


A feeling of falling overcomes me, and I wake with a violent start, almost jumping into a sitting position as I'm brutally torn out of the nightmare. This very nightmare has come around a lot lately – it has been haunting me my whole life. I have always had this ridiculous fear for falling through the air. Probably because my father threw me out of the window when I was seven, and in that moment when I flew toward the ground, seeing it nearing me, closer and closer, I realized that I was truly afraid to die.

And it is that dreadful feeling which only comes of fear of death that always finds me when I'm suddenly falling in my nightmares. Like someone decides to put a never-ending abyss in my path. As I fall I can't feel anything but the gut-wrenching fear. Fear for what lays ahead deep down in the dark. Fear for hitting the ground that has to lurk down there somewhere. Fear for death. But I never hit the ground, and I never die – I always wake before it happens. But I also fear the sounds echoing off the walls of the never-ending hole; my father's haunting laughter, and a baby's endless cries.

The nightmare sat my stomach in unease, and the nausea seem to be strengthened as I remember past evening's happenings. I shut my eyes close, and try to breathe myself calm again. So far, no luck. As I concentrate on holding onto my stomach's content, a warm hand strokes my exposed back. It startles me out of my concentrated trance, and I jump slightly under the slight weight of his calloused hand.

"Angel?" Cato murmurs, still half asleep. "Everything okay?" he growls softly, even though both him and I know that nothing is even near being okay. He lets his hand rest on my bare back and I hug the blanket to my naked chest.

I turn and give him a quick peck on the lips. "Sure." I wrap the blanket around my whole body, making it look like a long strapless dress as I stand up. "I'm gonna go shower," I inform him.

"You showered last night," he says coldly. His eyes are tinted with vague suspicion and his eyebrows are heaved. What? Does he have a problem with showering now?

"Yeah." I'm not planning on giving him an explanation. Simply because I don't feel like worrying him. He doesn't need to know that the reason is I can still feel Bartholomew's hands on me, and that the dirt-covered feeling still lingers so strongly. He doesn't need another reason to worry about his already half-crazed girlfriend.

Without another word, I stalk into the bathroom, fully aware of my man's eyes resting on my blanket-clad form as I strut away. The shower is burning hot, and I force myself to stand under the painful stream. I can almost feel the germs being slapped away, and my skin's top layer almost breaks from the forceful water.

After scrubbing away enough of the dirty feeling for my own satisfaction, I step out of the shower and gratefully welcome the cool air I'm met by, which soothes the burning of my still hot skin. I dry my hair by laying my hand on some sort of box, which sends these electric thingies throughout my body, ending with my scalp. It leaves my hair hanging like a soft wavy curtain around my face, and spilled all the way over my back.

Cato is doing push-ups as I walk into the room again. Tiny beads of sweat forming on his forehead as the familiar grunts of effort fills the room. I love the way his muscles bulges with every move. "Like what you see, angel?" he asks arrogantly with a mean smirk gracing his lips, obviously having noticed me staring.

Instead of answering (It will certainly feed his already way too large ego) I smirk at him and turn to survey the closet for any appropriate training wear. After a while of staring uncomprehendingly into the dark of the wardrobe, and actually recognizing all of the shiny and sparkly clothing, I pull out an ordinary looking pair of tight-fitting shorts and a plain t-shirt.

They remind me of the clothes I use to workout in at home, and a fake feeling of familiarity and comfort settles around me. Beside the unknown surroundings, it feels like a normal day back in District 2. Where Cato would sometimes spend the night at my house -or I at his apartment- and we would get ready and then go training.

After pulling on the shorts, I find myself noticing something missing. I stare miserably down at my bare chest, and notice the evident problem. My breasts have always been in the way when I train, as they always seem to bounce to wherever suits them best. With a soft mix between a growl and a sigh, I dive into the closet again, determined to find something to keep my two external parts in check.

Eventually -after having scattered clothes all over the floor- I find a sports bra. Cato snickers behind me as he sees me trying to fit it over my annoyingly big breasts. "Both you and I know that won't fit." I don't even bother to turn to face him; I know exactly which expression is plastered on his handsome face. Cato tends to get really amused whenever I'm faced with something annoying, which is the exact reason he likes to tease me about everything: he loves to see me annoyed.

"Shut it," I snap, and tear the little piece of too-tight fabric off. Frustration flows through me like a flooding river. Why can't just this simple little shitty thing go my way? It is like fate has decided to torment me as much as possible before I die. And the clock of the sad remnants of my life is ticking faster and faster. Like a final countdown. Tick tock, tick tock. Soon Clove is going to die. Tick tock.

The frustration is igniting something deep within. Not the anger. No, anger is waiting to be unleashed when it finally has bottled up enough. The frustration is stirring the devastation, and poking the mental exhaustion. And it is the frustration that brings weak, desperate tears to my eyes.

Is this it? Are all the annoying feelings whirling inside me finally surfacing? Are the desperate emotions haunting me -those which I try my best to escape- finally leading to a mental breakdown? Am I submitting to weakness, embracing it as an old friend? No. Clove Cavia is not fucking weak.

With all the last remnants of self-control I can muster, I force the few tears that sprung to my eyes back. There will be no tears leaking from my eyes today what so ever. Not now, not ever. Careers do not cry, no matter how much pressure they are under. And that is exactly what I am; a heartless, unfeeling Career.

With a sigh I throw the mocking garment into the black deep of the seemingly unending wardrobe. Cato chuckles under his breath – still amused by my frustration. I whirl at him, remembering to cover my chest as I turn, being that I will feel a little ridiculous for yelling at him almost naked. "It's not funny, Cato!" I growl at him.

Cato sees my glare and holds his arms up in mock-surrender, still laughing meanly. "As you wish, angel." Frowning at the nick-name, I grumble a not so nice one back. I want to punch him so badly in his smug face, I want to hear him grunt in satisfying pain.

He flings himself down on the bed as I stumble into the closet, yet again. Eventually ducking out, and clothed in a fitting one this time. I hastily drag the black top on, before giving Cato a quick glare, which -of course- makes the low, mean snickering erupt again. Without waiting for my irritating man, I stride out of the room. But Cato easily catches up with me and grabs me roughly from behind by grasping my waist, and holding it tightly in his possession. "You're so hot when you're mad," he growls huskily in my ear, causing shivers to run down my spine, not that I will ever let him know – of course.

"Well, I'm about to get fucking sexy!" I say in a low growling voice, and he pushes me rather roughly against the wall before pressing his large body into my small one, and I'm not going to protest even though he has made it his life goal to annoy the living crap out of me.

He lowers his head until his mouth lingers beside my ear; "You're always fucking-" His voice is a low grumbling murmur, and I struggle to keep myself calm as his stubbly chin brushes against my cheek. "-sexy," he whispers, dragging out the words while he blows hot air on the spot beneath my ear where he knows I'm ticklish, at which I involuntary squeal.

"Cato!" I hiss, though through very Clove-unlike giggles. And no matter how hard I try to choke that fucking giggling, I just can't seem to help it. As we both know: I'm unbelievably ticklish, and that is something he never lets me forget, and he often uses it against me.

"Oh, angel," he whispers playfully in my ear, and kisses my ticklish spot which of course makes me squeal even more and I try to squirm out of his grip. My effort to stay serious falters miserably. "You know you love it," he murmurs against my neck, and I can't fight the urge to roll my eyes. Classic Cato.

"Just to make one thing clear," says Enobaria, looking at both Cato and me sternly, the anger from last night obviously not having made its full departure. And her strict, no-bullshit voice makes me feel like she is trying to force the importance of what she is saying into our heads. "You are under no circumstance going to attack a tribute. I mean it. Especially since you did every single one of the other things I forbid you to do. This is the last time I'll say it; you have to be careful."

"But-" I say.

"No buts." Enobaria raises her voice, and I know she will soon start yelling. "You are not to cause anymore trouble, are we clear?"

"I-" I try again.

"Are we clear?" she interrupts, her voice filled with authority. And I get what she is getting at, but it isn't like I'm trying to get in trouble. It is just that trouble seems to follow me wherever I go.

"Yes," I say solemnly, meeting her lingering glare. And Cato, who is sitting beside me at the breakfast table nods in agreement. After all, she is our mentor, and she is supposed to know best.

"Good," she says, though she still sounds angry. "Now we'll talk strategy," she announces. "I want to know.. Even though I have watched you two from the second you got admitted into the Training Center, and certainly know it myself. But I want to know what you see as your own weaknesses." The bread I have been eating gets stuck in my throat with her words, and I start coughing like a maniac. Weaknesses? I have never heard of such things. We never learn about those in the Training Center – only strength, power, brute. No weaknesses.

Both Cato and I go silent. I can list all my strengths, but I don't have any weaknesses. Clove Cavia isn't weak. She doesn't have any weaknesses. She can't afford that. Cato looks just as perplexed and frustrated as me. "Define 'weaknesses'," he says at last, and I know that he is thinking the exact same thing as me; we are born Careers, we don't hold any weakness.

My father seizes the opportunity to open his mouth for the first time today, "A weakness is a vulnerability. It's your Achilles' heel. A chink in your armor." My father shakes his head, like we are ignorant children that just asked the most stupid question. "It's your flaws. Your imperfections." He bores his eyes into mine, his gaze holding nothing but a faint, dull blankness. But that is nothing new: he has never looked at me like a father should look at his daughter. No, he always looks at me like I'm a negligible object. He was never my father.

"I think we get it," I say as he opens his mouth to continue. My imperfections? Uh, well, I do have a slightly crooked tooth, and my breasts are way too big for the rest of my body.. But something tells me this isn't what they are fishing for. They want imperfections that can be the reason to my getting killed. But those reasons are non-existent, as I simply won't get killed.

"Okay," Enobaria says as she realizes we aren't going to say anything, looking back and forth between us. "Let's do this instead." She trails her narrowed, almost black eyes on Cato. "Cato, what's Clove's biggest weakness?"

My man looks at her incredulously, before his gaze rolls over to rest on me. His eyes shines in uncertainty, as if he is debating whether or not to tell me whatever he means is my biggest weakness. Raising my eyebrows, I dare him to say something. Cato catches my dare and that smug, mean smile creeps onto his lips, which again makes me narrow my eyes. "Clove's biggest weakness has to be her temper."

He knew that would anger me. Being easily angered does not make me weak. Only the slightest bit unpredictable.. Cato watches carefully for my reaction, still with that ridiculously arrogant smirk plastered on his infuriating face. I snort indelicately, aiming a perfected glare of malice in his direction. "Cato's biggest weakness is his confidence," I snap back. Irritated by him, and how the anger seems to creep further through me as I try to make it go away.

"There's nothing wrong with being confident," he shoots at me, frowning in that way he does when he tries not to show what emotions which are tugging on him.

"You aren't confident," I say. "You're overly-confident. You're fucking arrogant. And that can get you killed."

Cato snorts, a snort that has a really strong resemblance to a growl. "At least I can control my temper." Well, I wasn't the one who just let out an almost-growl. Though my temper strikes faster and harder, his is never far behind. In fact, his follows incredibly quick after my anger blows up in a furious tornado.

I shake my head, and open my mouth to voice my cruel retort as Enobaria interrupts the growing argument, "Your strengths?" she says, almost seeming bored with our usual bickering.

His eyebrows rises cockily, and his previous snappiness is replaced by arrogance. Before answering, he turns his head and grins cheekily at me as he winks. With a frown, I roll my green eyes at him as I can't help it, not when his endless teasing is so familiar. And the fact that we still are dangling challenges in front of each other, proves that we have not lost ourselves just yet. If it is something Cato can't withstand, it is a challenge, and me alike. In fact, that was the foundation of our whole so-called relationship.

"Wait," Enobaria says. "Do each other's strengths instead." Cato's face falls as he realizes he doesn't get to boast of himself, causing an invisible smirk to surface on mine. "Clove, begin."

After him teasing me, complementing him isn't exactly what I want. Complementing him just doesn't feel right, not when the only thing we do is insult each other. And especially as he thinks it is hilarious whenever I suck up my pride to actually say something nice. He is after all; an arrogant prick. But I guess it can't really boost his ego anymore, as it has already reached its way too high limits. "Brawn and brain," I say after a while. "He's strong, and he knows how to use weapons. While he's smarter than most of the other tributes, even if it really doesn't seem like it." Cato grins cheekily at me and shakes his head in faint amusement.

I wait in surprisingly eager anticipation as he opens his mouth to voice whatever thoughts he has of my strengths. "Clove never misses when throwing a knife. Never. She's flexible and puts on quite the challenge when fighting hand-to-hand. And she has the most vicious plotting mind." I allow the faintest grin as the last sentence escapes his mouth. In other words; I enjoy the feeling of blood on my hands.

"Good," Enobaria says. "Now I want you both to intimidate the competition as much as possible. Cato, show off your brutal force. Clove, make them fear you with your knives. And for your own sakes; don't do anything that can qualify as stupid. That does, indeed, include fighting with other tributes, public display of affection, and what do you learn in the Training Center?"

"No mercy," Cato and I say in unison. That is the motto we grew up with. The one I was taught by my father when he started training me as a bloodthirsty killer already at the age of six. The one they repeat whenever I am in the training center, and are hammering into the brain of all our district's youth. The one thing I won't have any trouble following, as Clove Cavia does simply not do mercy.

My attention is suddenly drawn to the cup of coffee standing in front of me, smelling weirdly. I can swear on my life that it didn't smell this repulsive two seconds ago. Or was I just too busy to notice it? Anyway, the smell makes me nauseous, and I have the urge to retch all over the place. Fucking Capitol and its weird smells. After just concentrating on my breathing for a while, it gets better. But I still shove the cup of ill-smelling liquid away. Hopefully, I won't catch a whiff of it again.

"The one thing you two forgot when listing your weaknesses was each other," my father says abruptly, causing me a surprise as whenever he is in the room I'm just trying to suppress his presence. And I obviously manage a lot of the time, being that I had totally forgotten he was still sitting here with us. "You are each other's biggest weakness, and if you can't let that go I'm afraid District 2 won't have a victor this year."

A look of defiance crosses Cato's face, a look I know far too well, and promises no good what so ever. In fact, that scary, defiant look on his features promises blood spilled, and broken bones. "District 2 won't have a victor. It will have two," he says in a great suggestion of his own deranged truth, planting his palms forcefully on the table, as he almost dares my father to say something else. A dare which my father -of course- decides to take.

"And how are you supposed to manage that, you foolish boy?" A evil glint has taken form in my father's eyes. And I know he possesses the skill to really make my man furious. Especially as Cato absolutely despises to be called boy, and to be honest; the taunting nick-name suits him rather badly. Just look at him; nothing says boy about his great form, and handsome appearance.

"We'll give them the best games they've ever had. We'll make them love us so much they can't let us go." And in that second I really come to believe we can, only because of the firm authority and obvious belief in his deep voice. That they will make an exception in the rules for us; the ruthless lovers of District 2.

"Looks like you're running out of time. District 12 already stole the spotlight," my father drawls in that taunting tone of his. But yet I can't help but think that my father's mean voice is speaking the truth.

"District 12 has got nothing on us!" Cato roars, to my surprise. He has been trying quite hard lately, to keep himself in check, and it seems like my father has a special talent for getting under everyone's skin. By being the dreaded itch nobody can scratch. "They're weak! They're District 12. They aren't worth anyone's time. And as soon we get to the Arena the Capitol will see that we are the ones who deserve to go home." The carefully hidden desperation in his voice, which I'm the only one who owns the skill to recognize, puts a fire in my chest, one which can't be extinguished.

"Just stick to the strategy, boy. Take it from someone with experience; Clove isn't worth it. Are you really willing to risk your promising future, bathing in fame, fortune and ladies, just to save her?" And believe me; that is a question I have asked myself a lot. He deserves better, the evil voice in the back of my mind whispers. So much better.

I stare incredulously at my father, my tongue paralyzed in shock, even though I know surprise shouldn't find me this way. Speechless, I feel the anger stir, only because he is voicing the merciless truth, until it whirls within me, and then blows into a full storm. The sharp, hot wind of anger slams at my insides, and all I can do is focusing on keeping the wind locked deep within. If I let it out now, I'm not sure what will happen, but it won't for sure be anything pleasant. It never is when I lose myself on the path of crazy.

With the agility of a girl who has been trained since she was six, I leap onto my feet and fling myself onto my father, only to be caught by Cato mid-air. His hand -which is grasping harshly at my waist- is shaking in barely contained anger, and I have no doubt that he soon will be consumed by the rage he is trying to calm me down from. He shoves my struggling body into Enobaria and says, "Get her out of here." He turns his cold glare to my father, and I'm afraid he will do something he really will regret, as I'm not the only one with anger management issues.

Enobaria holds a cold glare herself -also directed at my father- as if to tell him to behave. Then she grips my shoulders in an arm-breaking hold, and pushes me toward the door. The only thing I hear before I'm completely out of ear-shot is; "Look, old man..." Something that is obviously uttered by my angry boyfriend, whom is growling in that furious voice no one understands anything of if he only gets angry enough.

"We'll go training," Enobaria declares, and pushes me into the elevator as I make a final, faint attempt on fighting back. The truth is; I don't want to go back. Even if it is to kill my bastard of a father. I just can't stand his mocking face, and I bet that even death can't slap that gruesome smirk of off his face, or put his ever so mocking laugh out of my deranged head. "Breathe Clove," Enobaria says as she sees my struggle with controlling the shaking that comes with fury. Breathing doesn't help. I need blood. I need death and destruction brought by my own hands. But most of all I need the assurance that Cato will always be by my side, no matter what. All of these things which I need the most, are unfairly something I can't have.

"Clove," Enobaria orders in that fearsome voice of authority. "Breathe." I force myself to take a deep breath, but anger has taken such a hold of me I'm struggling to control what has turned into heavy panting. "You know how to control it." Enobaria grabs both my arms in a surprisingly strong grip. "Look at me," she commands, and for once I obey her. "Now, close your eyes and count to ten." My breath ripples shallowly through the elevator she pushed me in, echoing in the elevator's small walls. "Slowly."

I close my eyes in a vague effort to keep out the feeling of wanting to choke someone. One. This is ridiculous. Two. How is this supposed to work? Three. I feel stupid. Four. I have never been good at counting. Five. This is going way to slow. Six. Why am I doing this again? Seven. Is it working yet? Eight. I think it is. Nine. My breathing has slowed. Ten. I find it actually -in a weird and indescribable way- helping. I'm not calm – not anywhere near. But I think Enobaria's method must have worked, to a certain extent anyway. I still feel like ripping someone's throat out -let us face it, I always feel like ripping someone's throat out- but I know that -at least for right now- I can control the otherwise so overpowering grip my anger has on me.

I open my eyes again to find Enobaria glancing down at me, a frown visible on her otherwise so smooth forehead. "Are you okay?" she asks and I nod. "It worked, didn't it? At least a bit? I was having problems controlling my temper myself at your age. Always worked for me."

"It worked. A little," I tell her. But only a little. I just need to see Cato and then everything will be fine. Just perfectly fine. I just need his assurance, his voice -the one he only makes soft for me- and his hot touch.

"Good," says Enobaria. "Now I want you in there scaring them. Try to make allies. Trust me, you'll need them. Find out their strengths, their weaknesses. And no matter what you do-"

"-don't get into a fight," I interrupt. "I got it." But what I know and what I feel is two different things. If someone was to anger me when I'm in this mood already, I don't know what will happen. Knowing myself; not anything pleasant.

"Now, go," she commands and pushes me out the elevator and into a big room. My eyes widen as I see the greatness before me: the room has everything. No matter if you want to improve your knowledge with plants, or your skills with weapons - it is all there. Speaking of weapons; I can't seem to take my eyes of the haven of beauty laying before me; the knife station. Where you can find a knife in every size ever wanted. Sharp. Dangerous. Fatal. Knives – my second love.

I want nothing else than to run over to my beloved sharp friends, and embrace them with that non-existent love held in my body. Knives need love too. But a tall woman summons every tribute that has arrived, and starts talking about training and blah blah blah. I don't really listen, as I'm too busy changing between glaring spitefully at my competition, to gazing love-filled at the knives, to glancing longingly at the elevator door. Just awaiting the arrival of my most likely infuriated man.

Cato suddenly comes up beside me, and I did not notice because of the knives calling for me with their alluring voices. He looks at me, his stance says arrogance impersonated, even though fury still finds a way of showing too. I can see the faint amusement shining in his deep blue eyes as he follows my gaze to the place it constantly and automatically seeks.

The woman finishes talking -finally- and I grin wickedly at Cato before I stride toward heaven. Well, my definition of heaven anyway. He shakes his head slowly, like he tries not to laugh, and lets a faint grin cross his lips before he joins Marvel -was that his name?- on the spear-throwing station. As I reach my destination, I'm overwhelmed by how many knives there are. Home in District 2 there were a lot of options to choose in between, but it can't even begin to compare to the collection laying before me now.

A small and slightly curved throwing knife catches my eye, and I gingerly pick it up. Weighing it carefully in my hand, before I twirl it around a bit, testing it. Then, with a motion as fast as an attacking hawk and as graceful as a slinking cat, I throw it, and watch as it beautifully flies through the air in that familiar and oh so satisfying way. It hits just where I aimed; the dummy's heart.

I never miss. Never.

One of the trainers eyes me impressed, and challenges me to throw many in a row. I have never been one to back down from a challenge, and my blood-lust fuels itself every time I pick up a knife and perfectly hit the target. The movements are so familiar, so practiced to perfection my body does them automatically and without even thinking. Joy consumes me, and I feel a vicious grin creep onto my face. This is what makes me dangerous. I'm not the delicate, pretty little flower everybody who hasn't seen me in action assume I am. This is what makes me the bloodthirsty, monstrous Clove.

As I stop after a dozen of knives or so, I find everybody watching me. I can feel the weight of their heavy gazes on me – fear, jealousy and surprise being only a couple of the expressions they are wearing. Everyone except Cato is appalled. My handsome boyfriend smirks at me and winks before turning back to the spears. He is getting quite a lot attention himself.

My world becomes a blur of knives and bliss, and I find the distraction welcome. Shamefully, I know I haven't thought about my doomed fate these last couple of hours. It is surprisingly relieving to escape the desperate thoughts that has haunted my mind ever since the Reaping four days ago. Was it really four days ago? It feels like so much longer. But also guilt consumes me: I'm not supposed to feel bliss now, no matter what causes it. I shouldn't be allowed to feel like this, even though it is my precious knives which makes me feel glad, which creates the distraction. I shouldn't feel anything beside the raw anguish consuming me. But I do.

I'm despicable.

At lunch I sit beside Cato and the other Career tributes. Glimmer sits on my other side, chatting enthusiastically with the District 4 girl -whom I can't remember the name of- about their chariot outfits. Blah, girl-talk.

Cato discusses something with the other guys of the Career pack. It is funny really, how he has got them wrapped around his little finger like that. He is throwing a dangerous glare here, a manipulative remark there, and the two boys can't seem hide their fear and admiration of him. He clearly just became the self-promoted leader of us.

I try to slide in with the surroundings, and avoid being noticed as the wallpaper I really am. Cato talks well enough on his own. In fact, I would probably ruin it with randomly insulting someone. But hey, it isn't my fault they are always giving me reasons to insult their dumb faces. The District 4 boy -I can remember introducing myself to him, but not his actual name- doesn't let me though, as he turns and talks to me, causing me to inwardly sigh.

"Wow, Clove. The way you threw those knives was amazing." I can feel Cato's possessiveness coming to life beside me. He leans forward, leaving every single one of us very aware of how his muscles bulge with the threatening motion.

Slowly, with an arrogant expression on my face I ask, "And who are you again?" I can see the corners of Cato's mouth quirk up a little as I utter those words.

"I'm Jordan, remember?" he says. Obviously a little annoyed I can't remember him. Red creeps onto his face, exposing his embarrassment to all of us.

"Actually, I don't remember," I retort rudely. What is the point in being nice to your future preys?

He gives up trying to make conversation with me and I sit back in silence, crossing my hands over my chest in a defensive and threatening motion until they let us go back to training again. The rest of the day, I just try and keep myself occupied. I can't think of what will happen to Cato and I.

We are the cursed lovers of District 2. We are forced to play the game, knowing that there is no way to avoid game over. And when the game is over, I will either be dead, or wish I was. Because the odds were never in our favor. We were doomed from the start.

Finally -after many sweaty hours- they announce that training is done for today. As everybody stream to the elevators, I can see Cato walking suspiciously slow in front of me. And I hurry to catch up with him. As we reach the elevators they are all already gone, and we have to wait for the next one in our usual silence.

"You intimidated quite a few today," Cato murmurs quietly. His voice distant, and gaze absent. Did I miss something?

"You weren't too bad yourself," I murmur back. Usually he would smirk and taunt me endlessly for complementing him, before -and he always does this- coming to the conclusion that I'm right. Well, I am always right. But anyway, this isn't him. He doesn't not acknowledge compliments. It doesn't lay in his nature, his ego has made sure of that.

The elevator trip is unbearably long with the tense silence surrounding us. He isn't acting like himself and it is starting to scare me, and eat at my already frail nerves. "Why won't you talk to me?" I ask him, eyeing his reaction carefully.

He seems confused as he looks down at me. His forehead set in a frown, and it looked like he just realized I'm actually still here. "What? Did you say something?"

"No. But I can actually hear what I'm thinking in this tense silence. And due to the circumstances that's not a good thing. In fact, it never is. No matter the circumstance. Stop acting like I'm not here." I know I'm rambling, but the urge to fill the silence threatens to choke me. The tension is so thick in the air, it can be cut with a knife, and all I want to do is to go back and retrieve one of those beautiful blades and just cut the awful tension away.

"Relax, I'm not ignoring you," he says absentmindedly, and the fact that he kisses my sweaty forehead, alarms me to the point where I'm truly worried about him. He doesn't say anything more, and I give up. He obviously has something he should have said, and I know he will give me a piece of his mind whenever he is ready.

He used to do this back home, too: ignoring me if he didn't want to talk. But even though that is still the same, I can still see that us both being reaped has changed him. Now he is so caring, kind almost. He has always had a soft spot for me, but now it is like he is walking on glass around me, like I might snap if he makes a too abrupt motion. The thing is; he almost hasn't said a word to me without thinking it through these last couple of days. And that is one of the main reasons we fought a lot back home; that he never thought before he spoke. Without our constant fighting it seems so peaceful. It is a rare feeling.

We walk silently down the corridor, and he mumbles something about seeing me soon as I slip into my room for a quick shower. I'm really starting to worry about what is on his mind, as I'm almost sure it is something I won't like.

Dinner is awkward. With both my father -who hates me with a burning passion- and Oceana -who is so scared of me that she jumps whenever I move- at the table, it is doomed to be, right?

Enobaria seems rather unfazed by the awkwardness, and continues talking strategy. "Did you make any allies today?"

"Yep. They're all in. And no thanks to Clove."

I raise my one eyebrow delicately. "Excuse me?"

"Come on. Your only contribution was insulting District 4. Who by the way got quite embarrassed." Cato chuckles at the memory. No trace of the previous distraught and absence on his face. He actually smirks playfully at me.

"He had it coming," I answer curtly, with a faint frown, and not willing to play his game tonight. I'm not in the mood. And sometimes his mood swings really gets me confused. He is worse than a PMS-ing girl.

"We scared a lot of them though. Clove really showed off her knife skills. Everybody was staring at her in awe. Myself included, even though I've seen it a million times." First he is pointing out what I did wrong. Then what I did right. Is it weird that I am confused out of my mind? "And people saw my skills with spears and swords. I think I scared them good." He ends it with a confident grin. The one that says, 'I'm fucking great, and I know it'.

When we are done eating, I excuse myself and walk back to my room. I'm surprisingly tired, and I find it quite strange. How I trained today isn't far from how I train at home, and then I never get this tired. Maybe I was just performing better, pushing myself harder, we did after all have an audience.

When I get inside, I fling myself onto the bed, still fully clothed. The mattress is unbelievably soft, and the pillows are gently caressing my face. I'm about to fall asleep as a knock is to be heard on the door. "Clove, it's me," Cato growls.

"I'm sleeping," I grunt. Annoyed that he had all this time to talk to me, but instead he chose to ignore me. And when I finally am ignoring him back, he decides that he actually wants to talk. Mood-swings much? I think so.

"You aren't. Let me in." His voice is serious, which alarms me beyond the imaginable. If it is one thing Cato is not, it is serious. "We need to talk."

Uh-Oh.. That doesn't sound good.