the girl who played with knives || clato ✔️

40

Fynch

I am a witness to a myriad of deaths, an expert on hiding in the shadows, just out of sight. That's how I've always survived- at home, in the Capitol, in the Arena. But I've gotten sloppy. It began when Clove spotted me the other night in clear sight. I figured my end was there, but in the second she looked away from me I took a shot in the dark and ran.

I've always run. I run now, unsure of what my fate will be deep in these woods. Another mutt may well come and finish me off. Either that or Cato will surely catch up to me eventually. But I will keep running. I will hide. I will sustain myself in avoidant safety.

I'm breathing heavily as I run, and my back burns where Clove's knife pierced it, but I cannot stop running. That is, I can't afford to stop until I hear the cannon, resonant and definite. It must be Clove's, which means Cato and I are alone in the fight.

My first instinct is to run, but where will I go? An endless race around the Arena is not the route of any Hunger Games. Either the Gamemakers or Cato will draw this to an end soon.

I stand still and fight back tears. Fearful, anxious, saddened tears. I know what I have to do.

I turn around, facing the direction of the Cornucopia. I walk slowly, tentatively.

I have so far gotten through the Games without a scrape committed to another tribute. But here I must act. I have one of Clove's knives gripped in my left hand. With my right I brush the matted hair away from my face. My heartbeat and pace quicken simultaneously. I must get to Cato while he is still in shock due to Clove's death, because otherwise he'll surely overpower me. I must get to him before he remembers me. I must take him by surprise.

I sprint back the way I came, stepping along the same flattened trail, bounding with great speed until I near the Cornucopia. I can perceive Cato sobbing and muttering, and I hesitate.

I have to convince myself that this is the right thing to do. He can't truly win without Clove by his side. There's no way he'll ever be the same. There's no way he'll ever actually live. I tell myself this to justify the terror that I must commit.

It's just logical. It is. It was meant to be Clove and Cato together. I sensed that during training and especially when the announcement came that two tributes from one district can win. Sure, that applied to Katniss and Peeta as well, but it's ever more interesting for the viewers across Panem if there are two couples fighting for a life together. Besides, I neglect to believe that Katniss ever loved Peeta. She was cold and avoidant towards him in the Capitol. If anything the twelve-year-old children from 4 and 11 had better chemistry than the alleged star-crossed lovers. And certainly the Gamemakers were aware of Katniss and Peeta's weaknesses, particularly Peeta, who struck me as, if not weak, too forgiving and empathetic. I couldn't imagine him killing. I couldn't imagine myself doing so either.

I'm stalling, a feeble attempt to avoid the unavoidable. I have to kill Cato. It just makes sense.

I slink silently up to where he kneels over Clove, both of them completely torn apart in separate ways. I suddenly envy Clove. In death, she found release. She got the easy way out.

I step up behind Cato and tremble at the prospect of his evident strength and my evident need to overpower him. I know that, if I can slit his throat before he notices me, I will win this fight. But I can't make the move. Tears slide down my cheeks and spatter on the bloodied leaves. I take another step. One more and I'll be in range.

I attempt to slow my breathing as I observe the scene before me.

Cato, in a voice weaker than any I've ever heard, says "I can't, Clove. This can't be it. This doesn't make sense. It was... We were... I can't leave you here."

I take this as my cue, lunge the final step, wrap both arms around his shaking body, and slide the blade across his neck.