𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑚𝑦 𝑙𝑖𝑓𝑒 𝑖'𝑣𝑒 𝑏𝑒𝑒𝑛 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑓𝑜𝑟 ℎ𝑒𝑙𝑙
𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑛𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 ℎ𝑎𝑑 𝑖 𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ𝑡
𝑖'𝑑 𝑑𝑟𝑎𝑔 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑑𝑜𝑤𝑛 𝑎𝑠 𝑤𝑒𝑙𝑙.
the lives of the brutal, bloody boy and the clever, cunning girl - from the mountains of distri...
It is bright and early and the height of summer, and the weapons studio is packed with bodies. Brows are wiped so often, t-shirts pulled from where they've begun to cling to skin, that it might as well be the tenth circle of hell, but not one of the children deigns to move. So many of them have come to listen to him speak, to drink in his hero's tale of blood and sweat and tears. To follow in his footsteps to a crown of their own. Cato stands at the back, because he's tall enough already that he can see clearly without having to join the sweltering crowd. His blonde hair is plastered to his forehead, the sheen across his brow glistening in the mid-morning sun filtering through the skylight above.
He is eight years old and the man is his father.
He has heard this song of violence – of glory and gore – a thousand times over. It runs through his veins as steady as a river, entwined into his very soul from birth. Even at this age, Cato knows his future is golden.
The speech ends and his father steps down from the podium, inviting the still awestruck crowd to make their way towards the signing table. The woman who waits there, with her platinum ponytail and angled jaw, is his next door neighbour. She runs this place, is the person who paves the road to victory. One simply has to be determined enough to walk it, despite the perils they may face along its broken cobbles. Cato is one of the first to step forward.
He makes his way through the group of other children chattering excitedly between themselves. They clear a path for him without question. They already know who he is, his relation to the man from the podium. And there was no doubt he would be one of the first.
