Together ~ A Clove and Cato story ~

Chapter six (Cloves POV): Pushed too Hard

Third person POV

                 After the day Cato asseverated to protect Clove, the two had an adamantine relationship. Always together, Hanging out, doing homework together, etc. Cato was the only one who could make Clove laugh, and she was the only one Cato could trust. When Clove was twelve years old, her father forced her to start additional training for the Hunger Games. And of course, the two best friends trained together. They were as happy as two children with traumatizing pasts, difficult lives at home, and a future in the arena could be. However, right before Clove turned Thirteen and started the advanced level, she started shutting everyone out. Lying to Cato, working herself to the breaking point in training, she was miserable. Cato asked her over and over again what was wrong, but she just turned away, biting her lip before making an excuse about why she had to leave.

Clove POV

                 "What was that!" My Father bellows, as my knife collides with the target just missing the bullseye. "You ain't even trying! You are a failure!" I wince. Those words, I should be used to them by now, my Father says them often enough. I try to ignore the stinging from the cuts on my hands from times when the pressure of pleasing my Father has made me lose my grip on my knife as well as reality.

                 "I'll do better, I will." I pledge, seizing another knife. I chuck it, hitting the center of the target.

                 "You better." My Father growls, "Go to your room girl."

                  I trudge slowly to my room, collapsing onto the bed and squeezing my eyes shut. Ugh! I'm so done with training! And most of all, I miss Cato. Still, I can't tell him how miserable I am, because he would go insane on my Dad. When he vowed to care for me about two years ago, he meant it with all his heart. And that just makes shutting him out more agonizing. But I have to, for my sake, and his. I let a tear slide down my cheek. I haven't cried since I was an injured eleven-year-old girl, new to the idea of friendship. But no one can see me right now. I miss my Mother too, the old version of her. The version of her that braided my hair every morning, made me soup, kissed me goodnight, asked me about my day. But if she pities me in any way, my Father yells at her, sometimes hitting her. Suddenly I hear a knock on my door, and before I can answer, someone slides into my room. Someone with blonde hair and blue eyes that were once my life.

                 "Clove.... what's wrong?" Cato asks, his voice more serious than I've heard it in years. I open my mouth to answer with one of my cunning lies, but he cuts me off. "And don't say you're fine. I know you better than that."

                 "You don't know everything!" I snap, expecting him to look hurt. But instead, he steps closer, his eyes somber.

                  "Then how do I know that you wake up every year at 5:45 Am on November 3rd because that is the time you were born? How do I know that when you are uncomfortable, you bite your lip? How do I know that you don't enjoy knife throwing? How do I know that you secretly enjoy drawing? That you love the smell of summer nights? That you hate dressy clothes? That you are kind, funny, and considerate behind your tough face? Because I know you, and you can trust me with absolutely anything."

                   I twist my head, trying to stop the tears from falling down my cheeks. However, when Cato opens his arms to me, I rush into them, letting myself cry into his shoulder while he holds me close. I finally explain everything, the relentless burden to impress my Father, and my Mother's desertion from my life. He lets me vent, and he lets me cry. Eventually, I calm down.

                "Listen, Clove.." Cato whispers once I stop bawling my eyes out, "I'm always here."

                It's all he needs to say, and I vow to myself that I will never shut him out again.