Together ~ A Clove and Cato story ~

Chapter Eleven: I Have to Win (Clove's POV)

                Yet again, there's a pit in my stomach. Yet again, I discover myself overhauled by stress. Yet again, I'm left to bare an unrealistic burden on my shoulders. We are indebted. That's all that I have to say. My father doesn't work, and it's not like I can. At only thirteen and a half, no one would hire me. Over and over again, I'm reminded of how irresponsible my father is. Over and over again, I'm reminded of how close to famishing I am; of how close to desperate I am. So when our instructor notifies us of our forthcoming mock games, my ears perk up with the hint of a rich prize.

              "Two from District one and two from District two can win." The instructor discloses, traversing back and forth. "The rules are simple if you are injured, to a point where you can no longer function normally, then you are disqualified. If you win, you are awarded enough money to last you until your next mock games. The games start next week."

                 I have to win. That's all that I can think of. That's the only way that I won't end up a vulnerable girl with her ribs jabbing out. Cato must detect the confidence in my eyes or the determined way that I have stood up taller because he leans over and whispers, "what are you thinking right now, Clover?"

                 I gaze up at him, attempting to read his expression. "That if I don't win, I'll starve, get kicked out of the academy, and then die."

                  He raises his eyebrows. "One, I would never let you starve or die two, where's your confidence? If...you know what, I'm not even going to say if, when you win, you will need to be sure of yourself. You're missing one more thing, but I'm just going to let you figure it out."

                "Um...what else did I miss?"

                 "Go back about two years and think about something that we said in your bedroom."

                  "That my dad will stop drinking? Because at this point, I kinda think that's a lost cause."

                  "No, Clover, do you recall this point in our little conversation. Ahem." He clears his throat, "If we're both good enough, we could volunteer. Together? Together."

                   I laugh at how his voice went up like a million octaves when he copied me. "Ok, I do not sound like that. And I'm sorry if I didn't remember that but, alright. Maybe we can both win the mock games. Was that what you were waiting for?"

                   "Bingo! You're a winner of the Cato show!" He flashes a toothy grin and imitates Ceaser Flickerman, the commentator of the Hunger Games. Even though right now I feel as if my entire world is collapsing in on me, I ought to giggle at his ludicrous mimicry. At least I can count on Cato to make me smile.

                 We move through the movements of training as if we are androids, programmed to do the same thing over and over, with no blemish in the system that is our life. Knife throwing, archery, hand-to-hand combat, swords, plant classification, rehearsed a million times until the clock notifies me that it is time to go home, dripping with sweat and aching from monotonous activities.

                 Even though every bone in my body aches, even though I'm so hungry that I feel faint, even though I'm longing for a cold shower, I choose to stay, lurking in the girl's locker room until the academy is vacant.

                 I pick up my preferred knife, my calloused fingers settling in the familiar grooves that formed on the handle after rough hours of practice. I take my place, ten feet from the target, and hold the knife away from my face, automatically directing it and placing my fingers in the proper spots before building up all of my energy and freeing the blade, shutting my eyes to relish in the gratifying thunk that I've learned to appreciate.

              I work like this for hours, fighting until my clothes cling to my skin until everything just blurs in front of my eyes, nothing existing except for me, the target, and the knives that land in the bullseye.

               I collapse on a bench panting, yet content with the work I've done. I collect my things, slipping outside into the darkness of night. The crisp air bites at my exposed skin, but I don't shiver, my body still radiating with heat from my workout. I grin tiredly, my footsteps resounding through the tranquil evening as I make my way home, carrying my head high, determined that I will win. After all, I have to.