I lied; nothing in life was ever simple.

"You bastard!" I hissed at Cato the next day as we were training.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Clove" he just smirked at me as he continued to swing a sword around.

"I'm not just some little kid you can screw with anymore, Cato" I warned, my voice dangerously low. I gripped my knives firmly as I glared intensely at him, wanting nothing more than to drive them into his arrogant smirk.

"I'm not screwing with you, Clove" he turned to me, dropping his sword to his side.

I just stared at him blankly.

"I don't know what that was last night, and I don't want to talk about it... right now" he muttered and turned his back to me.

Well, that was insightful.

I pestered Cato trying to get him to talk to me.

And yet, I was still just as puzzled as ever, unsure of what Cato and I had shared the other night.

All I knew was that Cato had stolen my first kiss, and I was determined to get some answers as to why. As future Career tributes, we weren't meant to have emotions such as love, or lust for that matter.

And this was exactly what I told Cato when I cornered him later that day. He stared at me, a weird expression on his face as I went off at him. I yelled at how he couldn't play me like that. How real Careers couldn't live like this. How it went against everything that we had been taught at the CTF. He just nodded, not saying anything, something that was very uncharacteristic.

"Are you finished?" he asked, a hardened expression plastered on his face.

"Yes" I sighed, as he leaned in to kiss me, again. I felt the heat of his body pressing against mine and the urgency behind his lips. The thing in my chest purred with pleasure and it took all that I had not to kiss him back. I couldn't say that I didn't enjoy it, but something felt wrong. So I did what they taught us to do best here at the CTF. I shut off my heart and turned on my brain.

And my brain told me to slap some sense into this 16-year-told Career.

"Ow! Clove, what the hell?" Cato yelped as I pulled back and slapped him hard across the face.

"Stop doing this!" I yelled at him, shaking my hand out. That probably hurt me more than it hurt him.

"Doing what?" he rubbed his jaw as he eyed me suspiciously.

"Being so... Being so... You!" I exclaimed, unable to even explain what I meant.

"As much as I want to know what that means, I don't have any idea what you just said" Cato repeated, staring at me like I was crazy. Hell, at the rate I was going, I must have looked pretty delusional.

"I can't like you, Cato. It's not right. I mean, you're going off in two years to the Games, anyways. And it's not practical. We can't afford distractions until after the Games are over. For both of us" I exclaimed, and I immediately wished that I could take it back. Did I actually just tell Cato that I liked him? Oh shit.

He stared at me like I was crazy and I again did something completely against my nature.

I turned the other direction and got the hell out of there.

xxx

Once I was back to my dorm, the door locked and blinds shut, I began to actually worry.

This was all so messed up.

Cato wasn't supposed to be anything more than a training partner or a friend to me.

Now that all of this had happened, I would never be able to look at him the same.

And that meant make way for a whole lot of awkwardness in the gym, too.

We spent a lot of our free training time together, and now that I had seemingly lost my partner forever, I was going to lose a lot of practice as well. Nobody else in the CTF was up to the same standards as him. He was the strongest, the fastest, and the smartest. No one else could even compare.

I angrily threw two of my knives at the wall.

They stuck with the satisfying sound of blade splitting wood and it temporarily distracted me.

I pulled three more from my belt and blinding whipped them around the room.

I managed to hit a lamp, a painting of President Snow, and spit open a pillow.

Feathers exploded from it and rained down slowly from above.

I allowed a small smile to play on my lips as I retrieved my four daggers.

I should have known that I could always go back to my knives in times of trouble.

They had always been there for me, whether it be when my dad was drinking or my mom was yelling.

I scoffed.

My parents, putting on their façade of perfection when they were in the public eye. My father had been a Victor, but scarred by his experiences, instead of spears, he took up alcohol as his weapon of choice. He married my mother, one who never got to experience the Games and was still bitter about it. On her year to volunteer, there had been another girl who had beat her out for the coveted spot. The girl died, in the arena, and my mom still holds true to her word that if she had been sent, District 2 would have had another Victor on their hands.

So at a young age, my parents forced me to take up throwing knives as a hobby. My father wanted another Victor in the family; my mother wanted a girl to win for District 2 and reclaim what should have been hers. I had countless scars all over my fingers from when knives slipped or I threw them incorrectly. When that used to happen, my mom would scream about my imperfections and my dad would drink. It was a never-ending cycle.

Once I finally perfected my skills, my parents let me alone. However, this was a nice change from years of their over-bearing style of coaching, so I lived in solitude, untrusting and reproachful of all others who dared try to enter my world.

I was extremely far out of my comfort zone to have connections, emotional or physical, with anyone and allowing Cato to break into my shell scared me.

I put my knives back onto my belt and lay down to go to sleep for the night.

As I closed my eyes, my dreams carried me back to my parents house where my dad was drinking, as usual, and my mom yelling at me. But I was ready this time. I grabbed a knife from my belt and held it, poised to throw when someone burst through the fictional door in my dreams. It was Cato. He ushered for me to come with him and I obliged, following him without question.

Then, I woke up, drenched in sweat, my hand cramped as though I were holding a knife. I shook my head violently, trying to wrench the murderous thoughts from my brain.

"It was just a dream. Just a stupid dream" I whispered to myself.

Life may have sucked sometimes, but it seemed to me that my dreams were going to be a lot worse.

A Note From The Author:
Okay, this was just a weird chapter and I honestly don't really like it.
I guess it's more of a filler, expect a better one next chapter...