Rating: G
Clove liked to think that she could love. She did not exactly know how it was done, but she could learn. She was a fast learner (they alltold her so).
But they (the boys, all the boys before) never tried. They tried with other girls who ran slower, threw slower, thought slower. But never with her.
"Maybe you should slow down, too," he teased, "so they could catch you."
It was easy for him to say. Cato had no plans to catch her. Which was well, Clove thought in secret, because he already had her.
Clove believed there were many ways you could own a person.
Of course, there was taking their lives. When you watch their eyes glaze with the unknown- that, for Clove, was the epitome of possession. Your face as the last panel in their memories.
There were other ways she knew about, too.
Like when her father slapped her because she came second.
Like when her teacher yelled at her because she missed her target.
Like when her mother stopped smiling at her just because.
All of them took human parts of her and replaced them with steel.
But sometimes, sometimes when Cato looked at her (simply looked and never spoke), Clove felt all those parts come back.
As kids, Cato and Clove played hide and seek, only with different rules.
Rule number one: they hide together.
Rule number two: they don't get caught.
They would hide until it was dark, until all that's left in the world was them. Then they would burrow themselves more, trying to fit their growing limbs into corners.
The next day, they would come out with smug faces. They would hit with precision and never look at each other like they knew. Inside, they were still hiding. Outside, they would not get caught.
What annoyed her the most was the fact that he never touched her. Even when they were alone. Especially when no one could see.
When they hid (under leaves, under tables, under sheets) he'd curl up and hold himself instead.
Cato didn't know it, but this was when Clove started to die.
When they were reaped, Clove waited for him to shove her or punch her or strangle her. But he didn't even shake her hand.
At night, Cato would come to her still. They would take the same positions; close enough to feel each other's breaths, but far enough not to feel anything else. And Clove would keep on dying, with her eyes wide and her mouth shut.
When she died, he held her. Finally.
His grip was strong, his hands were bloody, and they were perfect.
"Why?" she had asked.
"Why what?"
"Why won't you touch me?"
Cato did not smirk. "Because if I do, I will never stop."
Clove's last thoughts were of his mouth, of his arms, of his hair, and how she would never be able to touch him back.