I can't help but glance around warily for any signs of Cato. He should've been here ten minutes ago. He was never late. Did something happen? Did he get in trouble? It is one in the morning, after all, and no sane person would be up and about.
Sane person. I snort. Cato and I weren't even close to sane. Maybe that's why we got along so well. Because we were both so messed up.
I might as well go look for him, I decide. He would probably be in the training center. He was there more than he was home. Because of his parents.
The word parents makes a lump form in my throat. There was another reason we got along so well. We both despised our parents so much.
I can't help but shiver as I walk. It's cold tonight, and it seems to radiate some sense of foreboding. Like an omen of sorts.
I shake my head at myself for being so stupid. Omen? Stop being such a superstitious fool, Clove, I tell myself. But I can't help but hesitate before I open the doors to the center.
The lights were on like any other night. But I had this feeling…
Ugh, get a grip on reality, Clove, I tell myself, and open the door. The hallways are strangely silent, so unlike the day, where there was always the sound of clashing metal.
Nothing could have prepared me for what I saw as I turned to corner.
The first thing I noticed was the crimson red splatters on the normally pristine white walls. Then I saw the body on the floor. Cato was sitting on one of the benches on the wall, staring off in the distance.
"Oh my god," I mutter. "Cato?" I ask hesitantly.
He looks my way and gives me a strange look, but doesn't say anything.
I swallow determinately and walk over. I can't help but give a gasp of recognition as I see the face of the corpse on the floor. The familiar icy blue eyes. The familiar blonde hair. The familiar tall, muscular stature. Cato's dad.
"It's…it's your fath-" I begin.
"Don't," he suddenly snarls. "Just don't."
I take a step back hesitantly, but begin to inch forward slowly.
"Are you OK?" I ask him warily.
He turns to me and gives me his perfect smile. But there's something missing. It doesn't reach his eyes. It's cold. The whole image is also ruined by the blood splattered on his face.
"What do you think, Clove?"
"What happened?" I ask softly, sitting down next to him.
He gives me his bleak smile again. "Trust me, you don't want to hear this."
"The hell I don't!" I snap. "Tell me. Now."
Cato had been wrapping things up in the training center when he heard him. The noise of the door creaking told him that there was someone there. Considering it was 12 in the morning, there were only a handful of people that it could have been.
When Cato finally turns around, pain flashes across his face. Then pain. Then anger.
"What do you want?" he snarls.
"Answers," the man at the door replies.
"What kind of answers?" he replies, quivering with rage now.
"Are you in love with the girl tribute?"
He closes his eyes for just a second. "Why does it matter?"
"Just answer the question."
"Yes." His voice is strangely tinged with bitterness.
"Break it off."
"You can't tell me what to do."
"Break it off!" the man snarls, pushing Cato against the wall. "Or I'll kill you." He pulls out a dagger form his coat pocket.
"You will?" he sneers, not bothering to hide the look of anger on his face. "You would kill your own son?"
"I would. Considering how you're going to disgrace me in the arena."
"What are you talking about?"
"There can't be two winners, Cato. I know you too well. You would let her win."
"You don't know me at all," Cato snarls. "And here's a tip of advice: never leave your opponent with a weapon."
And suddenly, the man is on the floor, Cato crouching over him, sword in hand.
"I'm not the little boy you could abuse anymore, Dad."
He spits the last word like a curse.
"Oh yes, you enjoyed that, didn't you?" he continues. "You told me it would teach me what pain was. It did. Just not the way you wanted it to. And now I'm going to teach you pain."
He pulls down a small dagger from the wall.
"Daggers and knives are usually Clove's specialty, but I've been told they cause more pain."
He traces the man's face teasingly with the tip of the dagger, drawing blood.
"You seem to forget," the man sneers, "that as a victor, I know a few tricks of my own."
And then they're rolling together, a ball of hate and malice and hurt and pain and blood.
When they finally emerge, the man is on the floor dying.
"I'm sorry Dad," Cato whispers, "but it had to be this way. I could never please you. You saw me as a tool. As a pawn. But I'm not your pawn."
I can't hide the look of horror on my face after Cato finishes his story. I look up into his eyes, but they're empty. They're dull blue voids where someone so strong used to live.
Then I notice the blood for the first time. Splattered all over his jacket. I assumed it was his father's, but I can see some of it bleeding out.
"You're hurt," I gasp.
He doesn't reply, just stares off into the distance again.
Only when I try to take of his jacket does he look down.
"You need medical attention," I say briskly, not meeting his eyes.
"Are you asking me to strip for you?" he asks wryly, just a ghost of his old self.
"You're hurt," I point out, feeling my cheeks burn up.
When he pulls his shirt off over his head, I gasp. There are several vicious lines of red all over his chest and back, and several deep gashes.
"That bad, huh?" he asks, not looking down at them.
"No, no, it's just a few scratches," I say briskly.
He chuckles. "You are such a bad liar, Clove."
"I…I don't know if I can fix this," I admit. "We might have to take you to someone-"
"No!" he interrupts suddenly. "Then we'll have to explain this."
I take a deep breath. "Fine."
I quickly go grab the emergency first aid kit that they keep in every room. I'll need some water, bandages, stitches, and painkillers.
"I need to wash away some of this blood," I say, reaching for his water bottle, which is in his bag a few feet away. "This is going to hurt."
"You act like I don't know that, Clove," he says, chuckling slightly.
To his credit, he doesn't make a sound as I pour the water over his wounds, but I can see his fists clench up.
His wounds look a lot better without all the blood.
"Here, take a few of these," I say, handing him a bottle of painkillers. He nods obligingly and swallows a few.
I'm only too aware of my hands quavering as I try to thread the stitches into the needle.
"Are you sure you know how to do this?" he asks with a smile on his face.
"Yes!" I snap. "Ok, maybe not. We only learned how to do this. We never actually tried it out!" I hiss.
"Well, I guess now is as good of a time as any," he comments softly.
I grimace, but start stitching together some wounds, and bandage others.
Finally, I'm done and I step back to admire my handiwork. The stitches look wobbly and uneven, like a chicken sewed them.
"Have you ever considered being a doctor?" Cato asks mockingly. "You'd be great at it."
"Shut up," I retort, and smack him.
We sit in silence for a minute. I finally break it.
"What are we going to do about the…the body?" I ask hesitantly.
"Leave it," he says, looking away in disgust. "No one will know it was us."
"Alright," I reply. Then I frown. "We need to find you some clothes."
He laughs, and I stare at him incredulously. "And here I was, under the impression you liked seeing me like this."
I can't help but blush hotly, feeling the blood rush to my cheeks.
"Shut up, Cato!" I hiss.
He rolls his eyes. "I'll just pick up some tomorrow. I don't have any intention of dropping by today."
"Where are you going to sleep?" I ask, biting my lip.
He only shrugs.
"W…would you like to come over to my house? My parents aren't home," I offer.
He smiles. "I'll take you up on that."
By the time we reached my house, the clock already read 3:19, but I hardly noticed it. I was too content falling asleep, my head resting on his chest.