Clove's Story

Sunlight pours through the windows. This is when I like to go to the gym. Early in the morning, the whitewashed walls are streaked with shades of red, orange and purple. Most people think that teenagers like me can't appreciate things like colours. Just because I come from District 2, just because I am going to volunteer to go into the Games, just because I throw knives. They assume that I can't enjoy beauty.

As soon as we are old enough to hold a weapon, we go through a series of tests. A handful of the elites are chosen to continue training. This doesn't only mean weaponry. There is more to the Games than that. But yes, most people can't wait to get a weapon and start ploughing people down in the Games. Romance is said to put us off. It makes you soft. There is plenty of flirting, but no one makes serious connections unless they want to be booted out of the program.

My head lolls against the cold stone wall, my hair tied back from my face. I've been told to volunteer every Reaping since I was eligible. All of the instructors believed I was perfectly capable. I come across as that kind of person, I suppose. The dominant kind, who do everything themselves, don't trust others, are confident. Sometimes I wish I didn't come across like that. Maybe then I wouldn't have been picked for the program.

As soon as I picked up a weapon, I gained an above average mark. Not quite excellent, but almost. Until I tried knives. Not only can I throw them with deadly precision, but I am fully able to kill people at close range.

When I try to explain this to people, they look disgusted. It isn't my fault. I've been brought up to win the Games. It has consumed my entire life. When I get back, it shall consume it once again. There is a Quarter Quell coming up, and the trainers from District 2, who are my personal trainers this year, have already hinted about my becoming the trainer of the female tribute.

I knew that I would be pushed to volunteer this year. Sixteen means that you only have a few Reapings left. Some would jump at the chance, the permission. I, however, do not. I have confidence in myself, but something keeps nagging at me; what if I don't come home?

It's alright. I'm sure I will; even the students who train alongside me are afraid. Winning these Games should be easy.

I like it when I'm alone in the gym. It means that if I mess up, no one sees. Not that I do mess up.

I get to my feet, and my knees complain. Last week I scraped them in hand to hand, something I hope to avoid in the Games. I rub them, and walk over to the knife table. There are delicate blades lined up next to the deadly ones. I pull my belt tighter. It has special loops so I can fit several knives in it. My fingers run over to the edges of the blades, and I admire how they reflect the light. I select six, and put them in my belt.

In the corner of the gym are targets made just for me. There used to be limited human silhouettes, which I soon completely destroyed. Now there are human shaped dummies and bulls-eyes. There are also lines painted at twenty, fifteen, ten and five metre marks.

As usual, I start at the five metre mark. The dozen knives all find homes in choice places on the dummies, and hit the centre of the bulls-eyes.

I retrieve the knifes, and move back to the ten metre line. Once again, I throw them, and they are perfect. I repeat this again at the fifteen metre line.

The twenty metre line requires more concentration. The targets are harder to see, but still easy for me. The first eleven knives are throws that I am pleased with. I'm just lining up the last knife, gripping the blade, when I hear a voice behind me.

"Nice throws."

I let go of the blade, and it hits the wall and clatters to the floor with a metallic ringing noise. I turn around. No one should be here, as it is far too early. Besides, no one comes to the gym on the day of the Reaping.