sorry y'all i lied i was supposed to have this out yesterday but 🤷🏽♀️ enjoy it
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Snow was falling heavily that evening. I trudged
home from school, boots softly crunching in the fresh snow.
I was walking through the west village when the storm picked up. The warm, yellow light filtered through the windows of the large houses, and I imagined the residents sitting inside, holding their hands above the gentle fire.
I yanked the hood of my jacket over my head, pushing my mittened hands into it's pockets. I knew my sister must already be home. I was stupid for staying after hours.
The Square was completely abandoned as I walked through it. The Justice building loomed terrifyingly dark over me, and I walked a little faster in it's shadow.
There is a point in District two where the wealthy West Village begins to bleed into the East side of town. Buildings get smaller, the roads get bumpier. Fences change from wrought iron to simple pickets.
That's still not the worst of it, though. On the outskirts of town, East as east can go, sits the Kentwell home. I walk along the quickly snow-sodden path up to the door. It's an old structure with a small concrete porch, sloping shingle roofs and missing boards along it's walls. But it is home.
I enter the house. It's quiet. My first instinct is to go down the corridor and check on my mother.
She's been sick for months now. We took her to the hospital in the West Village, but our father told us they couldn't help her.
I see my sister when I open the door. Myra is somewhat of a copy of myself, just a bit taller. Her dark hair falls to her shoulders, and the light of the bedside lamp illuminates her slight face.
"How is she?" I ask.
"I don't know," She murmurs. I make my way to her side and peer down at our mother, nestled into the sheets of her bed. She looks to be sleeping peacefully.
"Has she been coughing a lot?" I try to catch my sister's eye, but she doesn't acknowledge me, just stares bleakly ahead.
"She's been sleeping," Myra answers.
I look down at my mother's pale face. Her lips are drawn in a thin line, eyes closed and eyebrows relaxed. I nod quietly, and then touch Myra's arm. "Where's dad?"
She doesn't answer.
"Where's dad?" I ask again, my voice rising.
"I don't know. Probably at the barracks," She responds. "Clove-"
The dread worms it's way into my stomach as she says my name. Something is very, very wrong. I look back at my mother, and realize just how her chest doesn't rise and her eyelids don't flutter and she doesn't make a sound...
I let out a blood-curdling scream and fly out of the bedroom, away from my mother's terrifying, dead body. The screaming won't stop, and I burst out the front door into the streets. Without my jacket or my mittens, the extreme cold bites at my skin and I scream even louder as the storm rages on.
I don't notice the people coming out of their houses in fear, myself falling into the snowdrifts and the Peacekeepers coming to whisk me away. I don't even notice how loud I shriek as I'm held back by my arms and they carry my mother out of the house in a stretcher covered by a white cloth. I don't see my sister slash her wrists and fall to the ground in a heap of blood, only to be dragged away. I don't hear my father's drunken roars as he throws empty bottles as the Peacekeepers that haul my mother into their transport. The night is reduced to a blur.
When I wake up the next morning in a sterile bed in an unfamiliar room. Unfamiliar voices echo around me. I frantically tear the bedsheets off my body and look around the room.
"Myra?" I yelp.
No answer.
"Myra!" I scream.
Then the door flies open and a nurse bustles into the room with a needle in her hand. I see it immediately and thrash in my bed, trying to escape. Before I know it, the needle punctures my arm and the drugs take hold of me once more.
This routine continues for a series of weeks. Terror and morphling are all I know, and It takes a toll on my eight year old body. When they finally release me from the ward, peacekeepers escort me back to the house. When I finally entire the living room, the smell of whiskey and cheap beer is all I can smell.
The moment I walk through the door is the moment my life begins to crumble.
"Clove?"
I blink as the forest sunlight dapples my sight again. Marvel, Marina, and even Peeta are staring at me in confusion
"Oh." I bite my lip.
"You ok?" Peeta asks, and I glare at him.
"Shut up," I hiss. I get up from where I sit and grab my backpack and my knife jacket, and walk away into the woods.
How stupid am I? Letting those people see me zone out that way? Now is not the time! Still, I feel the tears welling up in my eyes and I squeeze my eyelids shut, blocking them from falling. No matter how far out I am from the group, I am never fully away from the prying eyes of the Capitol. No doubt they'll be watching me now that I stormed off like that. All I can wish for is that maybe Cato and Glimmer are doing something more interesting so no one will focus on me.
My wishes evaporate, however, as I hear loud laughter and talking coming from my left side. It takes me only ten seconds to recognize who it is.
Glimmer and Cato tramp through the woods, their footfalls making loud crunches on the forest floor. I catch a glimpse of Glimmer, head thrown high in elation, golden fishtail braids bouncing on her shoulders.
And then Cato. My stomach twists at the sight of the him, arm thrown joyously around Glimmer's shoulders. I don't think I've ever seen him smiling so big. I search for any sign of fakeness in his happiness, anything that could suggest that toothy grin may be a lie. But I find none.
YOU ARE READING
Gladiators -- Clato
Fanfiction"you can try to take us, but we're the gladiators," Clove, the girl who never misses. Cato, the pinnacle of Career power. Trained since childhood to be ruthless, cold-blooded killers. At least, that's what the Capitol wants them to be. What happens...
