The Story Of Cato And Clove

Chapter 3: Cato

When I wake up, it's morning.

I roll over onto my side, morning haze dulling my vision. I thread my fingers through a soft cotton blanket- much nicer than mine back home.

I sit up, momentarily confused, before the pieces click into place one by one.

The Reaping.

Volunteering.

The train.

So it wasn't a dream. I groan and sit up. I'm so tired it takes extreme effort to keep my eyes peeled open- it feels as if someone placed a brick on my eyelids.

Trees blur the window, splitting the dawn light into broken shards of gold. The darkest patches of the sky have sunk down to kiss the horizon, making way for the wine reds and bruised plum purples of sunrise.

I didn't sleep well. My dreams were plagued by nightmares of seeing that brown bobbled ponytail tangled with gushing red, haunted by memories of her willing voice, cutting across the Town Square-

"I volunteer!"

I shake my head and stumble out of bed. I need a shower.

~*~

Freshly washed, I consult my closet, rows upon rows of fabric, silk and cotton, and throw together the first outfit I can find, smirking as I imagine Clove standing at her closet door, head spinning, trying to pick out the best outfit possible. She was tough, that girl, but she had a girly side. It was buried deep, shrouded in darkness, but in was there.

I dress in a pair of dark pants, a thin, clinging white t - shirt, grey sneakers, and a pull - over hoodie, shuddering at the thought that these will be thrown out, hurled into the trash without a second thought when I'm done with them.

These people in the Capitol know nothing of hardships or poverty- they know nothing of living in a run - down house with creaky floorboards and rickety walls, they know nothing of taking on multiple jobs to support a family.

The other Districts think we're rich. And perhaps we are, in comparison to them. But the only reason my family's never been hungry is because I hunt illegally, trade for food, and have been working in masonry - our districts specialty - since I was thirteen. My mother takes on more than her fair share of work, too- she works as a maid for the mayor, scrubbing and cleaning and cooking until her hands are rubbed raw and near bleeding-
And we're some of the lucky ones.

~*~

When I reach the dining room, everyone's already there.

Seems like I slept in.

I sidle up to the table and sprawl onto a seat. Estrella purses her lips at me but doesn't comment.

I examine my companions. Clove is dressed in adorable high - waisted black leggings and a slightly cropped grey tank top. Her hair is up in her traditional, well... do I really have to say it?

Enobaria and Brutus are in matching uniforms- I am struck when I realise they are exact copies of their tribute outfits. My lips tug downwards in a frown. Why would anybody want to remember their Games? From what I've heard, most Victors would give anything to forget. They're chased by hollow, grotesque memories for the rest of their lives, wake up screaming from their sleep, turning to therapists and friends and family and liquor for support.

None of it works, though at least the latter numbs the pain.

Estrella is... I can't even begin to explain her crazy outfit. A splotchy green top hat rests on her long neon - green wig. She's wearing a mud - brown dress that pools on the ground as she sits. Her face is adorned with greenandbrown lipstick and eye-shadow.

She looks, somewhat... like a booger.

Is this fashion in the Capitol? My nose wrinkles, horrified. I notice Clove has much the same expression on her features. She looks at me and, looking around to ensure nobody is watching, mimes throwing up. A laugh bursts from my mouth, a million tiny particles of hilarity. The rest of the table shoot me strange looks. My cheeks heat.

"Oh, uh..." I stammer. Brutus raises his eyebrows, Enobaria rolls her eyes with a smile, Estrella's lips purse even tighter, and Clove.

Clove looks very, very pleased with herself.
I bite back a smile, mouthing 'fuck you,' in her direction.

She grins. I don't need to check under the table. I know her hand is there, rested in her lap. I know her middle finger is extended at me.

My turn to grin.

Breakfast is like nothing I've ever seen before. Red-garbed Avoxes come, carrying steaming platters of potatos swimming in butter, smoked salmon sprinkled with rosemary, thick soft pancakes drizzled with syrup, and honey-butter fried chicken.

I ate like I'd never eaten before, and now I'm beginning to regret it. My stomach is starting to churn, and we're barely three courses in.

"We shall be arriving home soon," Estrella starts in her posh Capitol accent.

"You mean the Capitol?" Clove asks. Our District Escort beams and nods.

"You'll be starting your training soon enough, my dears. I've no doubt you'll be the best of the lot- such a promising bach from District Two this year!"

I gape at her, horror twisting my gut. Did she just call two children sentenced to their almost - certain deaths 'a promising bach'?

I look towards Clove, but to my surprise, she looks utterly unfazed.

Clove has always been loving, kind, playful. Sure, she has always had a darker side, too, but it was buried underneath her good traits.

Are the Games bringing that part of her to the light? Are the Games turning my Clove into a beast?

And then I remember something.

Ten - year - old Clove, losing a match of Checkers to the class nerd, hurling the pieces up into the air, scattering them everywhere, and insisting she was going to win anyway.

Twelve - year - old Clove, making up a game with me where you throw pebbles into a cup, then proceeding to lose said game, and storming off, muttering that it had been so unfair.

Fourteen - year - old Clove, winning footsies against the class, jumping up into the air and whooping, yelling things like "kiss my ass!" and "suckers!"

And I realise Clove's problem.

She can't lose Games.