I still remember that day.
The day when my father, tears cutting through the layer of grime on his lined face, watched as they took me. Away to a new place. Away to a new life.
The academy was an imposing structure, much like the buildings of the Capitol itself. As we approached the doorway, the Peacekeepers tightened their grip on my arm.
I was lead through clean, airy passageways, to a large, well-lit hall. My eyes scanned the group of other soon-to-be careers. Fredrick stood with a handful of friends, laughing, relaxed, carelessly handsome. A group of girls, shiny-haired and bright-eyed, were avidly chatting on the other side of the room.
One caught my eye, and, painfully aware of my limp, greasy hair and bruised, dirty face, I tried for a friendly smile. To my surprise, her lips curved upwards- then twisted into a sneer. My mouth felt dry as I turned away, tears burning in my eyes.
A man walked into the room, called for silence. The two groups quietened down, and I hesitantly made my way over to join them. To my relief, except a few disgusted glances, no one openly objected to my joining them.
"In 7 years' time," began the man, quietly, "Two of you will enter the Hunger Games. At least one of you will die. Who that is, will depend on how well you listen to what I have to tell you. Rule one:" quick as a flash, he drew a knife from his belt, sending it slamming into the opposite wall. We turned to see the dagger lodged firmly between two panels. Hard, cold metal pressed against my neck, and I froze. "Never, let your enemy distract you," came his voice, from behind me. He removed his knife from my throat, and I let out the breath I had been subconsciously holding.
"The first thing you must do," said the man, slowly, "Is choose a new name. You are here to reinvent yourself; leave behind the person you once were. You," he points at a girl, "What is your name?"
She immediately opens her mouth to answer, but he shakes his head.
"Not your birth name. What name do you choose?"
The girl hesitated, running a hand through her honey-blonde, wavy hair. Her pale blue eyes were flickering, indecisive.
"Clara," she decided, suddenly. He nodded, moving on to the next. Soon, he came to Fredrick.
"Cato," said the boy, at once.
Cato. Unstoppable. Fearless. Cato.
And all too soon, I had to choose.
"So? What will it be?" asked the man, his intense gaze slightly unnerving. I gulped, aware of everyone's eyes on me.
Amber was a weak girl, greasy-haired, pale-faced, with a sullen expression and years' worth of faded bruises. I had to leave her behind. I had to be strong, beautiful, brave. Like my mother.
The warm smile. The sparkling eyes. The scent of cloves.
I chose a name which would always remind me of her. Her, and what I had to live for. What I had to fight for. What I had to become.
"Clove," I told him, firmly. His eyes widened slightly, and for a moment, a mere moment, I saw something in his eyes. Surely, surely not... recognition? And then it was gone, the moment had passed, and my classmates' attention was pulled back to the front of the hall.
"My name is Kieryan." said the man. I frowned.
"Your real name, or the name you chose?" I asked. His eyes met mine.
"The name I chose."
The years passed, and quiet young Amber faded with the dull of time. I washed and brushed my dark hair regularly, my childhood bruises faded, and a girl became a woman. My limbs became lean and muscled, thanks to the years of training. I aged beyond my years, a child forced to grow up too fast.
"Knife throwing," said Kieryan, one day well into my second year. The class perked up, slightly. "Today, we will learn knife throwing."
Handing the knife to Hania, a pretty, red-haired girl, he gestured towards the target.
"Throw it," he told her. She did.
It fell two metres short of the target. Crestfallen, she walked over and scooped up the knife, handing it back to Kieryan, who offered it to Clara. The class lined up behind her. Predictably, I was last.
Cato followed Clara, his knife narrowly missing the target. He ground his teeth in frustration, taking the knife and handing it to Dylan.
Eventually, it was my turn. So far, none of my classmates had managed to even touch the target. My hopes were not high.
Lilia threw the knife down at my feet. To the sneers and smothered laughs of my sceptical classmates, I bent down to take it.
Cato whispered something to Dylan, and he laughed, glancing at me. Hot anger surged up inside of me, my heart pounding in my chest. Without thinking, without looking, I turned and threw the knife.
It missed.
A bitter taste in my mouth. The taste of failure. My classmates jeered, and my cheeks burned. I walked over to the knife, grabbed it, and looked around the training centre. A dummy, suspended in midair by a single rope.
I took aim. I threw.
The knife missed the dummy.
But it hit my target. It hit the rope.
It severed it in two. The dummy slammed to the ground.
I walked out of the training centre, slamming the door behind me.