FUTILE DEVICES | clato

ONE

I've always known, since I was a little girl, what dying would feel like.

There's been multiple occasions in my lifetime that I've died, and they always seemed to have one-upped each other.

There was the time, I was maybe ten or eleven, when my dad beat me so hard that I lost consciousness. I died that day, hiding under my bed while trying to stop the tears.

Another time; I was fourteen now. Oliver, the girls trainer at the Academy, told me that I'd certainly be the one to volunteer for the games when I turned eighteen. A death wish right there, if you're not careful enough.

Sixteen, when I drank for the first time and finally realized that death could finally be peaceful.

I've always known what it would feel like to die. So in February, when Oliver reads out the list of tributes who were to volunteer for the upcoming games in June, I gladly step forward as he calls my name as loud and clear as I'd ever heard it before.

"Clove Kentwell!" his voice echos through the packed Academy. Head held high, I take my place next to him as the kids my age clap politely. I'm not offended that they aren't whooping and cheering like they normally do. Most of them don't know me. I train alone unless I'm forced otherwise, and my friend group consists of only one other.

They don't know how good I am. But they will. They'll see.

"And Cato Hadley!" my male counterpart is called forward. I scan the crowd for a glimpse at who will certainly be the first member of my alliance.

A tall, muscular boy with gelled blond hair and bright blue eyes pumps his fist in the air as the crowd erupts with cheers and screams.

I know what they're thinking: he'll be the victor.

They are sorely mistaken.

Cato takes his place at the front, next to me. He turns to shake my hand, which I decline. I don't do contact, physical touch, whatever someone would call it.

"The tributes!" Oliver introduces us formally. The applause lasts for minutes.

This is what I was meant for.

-

The Academy bustles around me as I stand firmly on the cushiony mat, knife ready in my hand. The screams, chants, and thuds that surrounded me mean nothing to me. I'm good at pretending that nothing bothers me. Taking a deep breath in, I let the knife slip through my fingers, gliding carefully through the air and sinking into the heart of a poor, poor dummy target. A smirk finds its way onto my lips as I review my success.

"Nice one, Clove," Oliver congratulates me.

"Mhm," I mumble, readying another knife in my hand to throw at the next target.

"Hold on," Oliver says, stepping in front of the dummy. "Give someone else a turn."

I scoff. "I was here first."

"Sharing, Clove," he warns me, raising his eyebrows.

Annoyed, I set the knife back on the rack and step away from the station.

"Come on, Cato," I hear a man call. Looking up, I find the voice to be Aaron's, an assistant trainer.

Cato, my tribute partner, steps on the mat.

I can tell instantly that he'd miss it, just from the way that he's holding the knife. However, I keep quiet and let him embarass himself. That's what he gets for taking my spot.

His knife hits the target, barely, sticking itself into the mid-arm area.

I grin, suppressing a laugh.

"You got something to say?" Cato calls, making his way over to where I stand behind the knife rack.

"You missed," I point out the obvious.

"I hit the target."

"Barely."

"Who even are you?" Cato chuckles, crossing his arms.

"You're in my way," I turn my back to him, ignoring his question, and reach for another knife to throw.

"Hey!" cato demands, stepping in front of me.

"I'm throwing this now. I suggest you move before it ends up in your chest," I warn him, shaking my head.

Reluctantly, the arrogant boy obliges and moves out of my way. I throw. Naturally, the knife ends up right in the dummy's chest.

I wish it were Cato's.

★ posted December 31st