Clato: Twisted

Chapter 1 - The Turning Point

The darker skinned man brutally shoved the black colored hair boy down the hill, into the ruins of a remaining building. The man, Arnold, sprinted down after him, spear in hand. As the boy stumbled, he was whacked across his face with the spear.

Arnold took advantage of the fallen child, Ian, and pranced on top of him. Having him pinned down, Arnold was able to pull out a red brick he had scavenged from the remains of the ruined buildings surrounding the two struggling figures. The boy wrestled the larger man's grasp but it was useless. This was the end: it was all over; he had to accept his fate.

Arnold drew his arm back and with all his might—or at least what was left of it—, aiming straight for the lungs and swiftly brought it down hard upon Ian's chest. Arnold smashed the limp body repeatedly until he was satisfied. He was breathing hard, sticky with blood and sweat.

He examined his last kill: there was sand sticking to his black jacket, his left side of his face and hair drenched in blood. This was it, the moment when a tribute becomes a victor.

That was the man her mother fell in love with, that ruthless murderer. Clove's mother, older sister, and her sat around the small square table and watched the screen intensively. Clove had been four then, she watched her new step-dad brutally murder 23 people. That was a game of some sort. A game she never knew why it was meant to be. She knew games were suppose to be fun, but this definitely did not look entertaining in any way to her. In fact, it was terrifying to her. If it was truly a game, those 23 people would've still been alive, but no, there were gone forever—for real.

Ever since that day, all of District 2 had been expecting Clove and her sister to learn from Arnold. Clove had never known how or even why anyone could be that heartless. She had asked him once. "How could you do that?" she had asked. He told her it was revenge. Revenge. That word stuck with her for as long as she could remember. She hadn't known what it meant then and didn't have the courage to ask. Clove was never his favorite, after all, she was only a bratty and irritating 4-year-old who asked too many questions.