the girl who played with knives || clato ✔️

7

Cato

All throughout dinner and the recaps Clove was giving me weird looks. It's not like I was staring at her (except for maybe once...or twice), I just happened to notice out of the corner of my eye. And when the Maggot sent us to bed, Clove had a pained expression on her face, like she needed to do something before going to bed.

Once I'm in my room I slide under the covers but can't seem to fall asleep. I unclasp the locket from my neck and stare at the little pictures in it. I do this for probably a half hour or more, then finally decide I must sleep. I will hopefully get to talk to Clove again in the morning.

-

I climb out my bedroom window and into the branches of my favorite climbing tree. I come here a lot when I need to be alone, or when my dad starts throwing things. From my perch high in the tree I can clearly see a bunch of kids running around in the front yard of the house across the street a few buildings down.

There's one boy who looks maybe a little older than me, and a toddler with her hair in two little braids down her back. There are three more girls, one looks much older, maybe 9 or 10, and another looks like she's the boy's twin. The last girl is the one my eyes stay trained on though. She goes to my school and is in my grade, though she looks young for her age; which is 6. She's tiny, with dark brown hair and eyes, and freckles dotting her ivory skin. I've seen her around a lot, but never spoken to her. Instead, I watch from afar.

-

"I'm Cato." I say nervously. It's the first day of 7th grade, and I've just run into the girl from across the street in the halls. Literally. I helped her pick up her books, and now we are just standing in the hall.

"Clove." She smiles. I think I'm smiling too.

"Cool," I say.

"Well, I'll see you around," Clove says.

"Uh, bye," I reply, as she turns to go. I watch her walk away.

-

"Cato?" Clove turns to me. We're sitting in the oak tree in her yard, her mother is yelling at someone over the phone. It's the summer of 9th grade, a few days before my third reaping and Clove's second.

"Yeah?" I say, turning to face her.

"If I get picked... Will you look after my mother?" She asks.

I want to tell her she won't get picked, but she's told me how much she hates to have hope, because it always gets dashed to pieces in the worst ways. Clove has a hard life at home. Her father left early on, and she doesn't even remember him. There was a long period of time where her and her mother fell into poverty, which admittedly has brought on a stigma surrounding her at school. So instead of giving her hope, I give her reassurance.

"Of course," I say.

"I just don't want her to fall apart," she says, looking back over at the house. I think maybe she wants my protection for herself too.

"She won't have to," I say, putting my arm around her. "Neither do you." Clove puts her arm around me as well and whispers one last thing.

"I hope I never have to leave you."

"You won't," I whisper. "I promise."

-

Tears leak out of my eyes as I wake from the dream, a series of memories warped by the fish-eye lens of subconscious thought. I hope I never have to leave you. The sentence plays through my head, and I struggle against the tears. This is just one more case where hope gets dashed to pieces in the worst way, I think as I slip back into the nightmarish world of sleep.

-

There's the familiar sound of a knife hitting the trunk of the old oak tree in Clove's yard, and I know something is wrong. Clove throws knives when she's stressed, or when she needs to escape from the world.

I make my way to her, but the surroundings change as I get closer. The houses collapse into piles of rubble and the grass wilts until in eventually dissolves, leaving behind hard packed dirt.

As I scale the pile of rubble that used to be her house, I see Clove lying on the ground, someone on top of her, pinning her arms down with their knees. The person, a muscular guy wearing the exotic clothes and hair of the Capitol, raises his right hand in the air, which wields a bloody brick, and the horrifying realization strikes me that the sound of knives hitting a tree is actually brick hitting Clove's skull.

I try to run to her, but something is holding me back. I try to scream for the Capitol person to stop, but a strong force is squeezing my throat. I finally wheeze Clove's name and the Capitol man turns to look at me, revealing himself as Mortar.

"May the odds be ever in your favor!" He says, his face and voice contorting into Madeline Maggot's, and I try to call for Clove one last time before I black out.

-

"Clove!!" I scream at the top of my lungs. My voice breaks as I say so and I realize I'm being choked. It's too dark to see anything, but I can still feel the force on my throat. I claw at it desperately and realize it's only the locket, still clasped around my neck. I rip it off and fling it into the hazy gloom around me, screaming and cursing in the darkness. I'm sweating profusely, and struggle to pull my shirt off as well. Then I lunge from my bed and run for the door, which I slam into with such force it nearly falls off its hinges, and fumble with the handle. I eventually get it open and stumble down the dark hallway to what I think to be Clove's room. I need to see her. I need to make sure she's alright. I need to know she's still with me.

Clove

I wake suddenly to the sound of screaming. It sounds like Cato's voice, but it also sounds completely insane. I get out of bed and fumble around in the darkness for my clothes, when I hear a loud crash. I pull on the shirt I found in my dresser in the train and have just pulled my pants on and started to run towards the door when it opens in front of me.

I can barely make out someone's silhouette, and the person is breathing heavily.

"Cato?" I say nervously. It's barely out of my mouth when I feel Cato's strong arms around me. He isn't wearing a shirt, and his skin is hot and slick with sweat.

"Cato?" I ask again. I can feel him trembling and he's making odd choking sounds. It takes me a moment to realize he's crying. "Cato, what-"

"You died, Clove," Cato says, his voice strained and frantic. "You died."

I hold him close and say, "What do you mean, Cato? I'm here." My voice cracks, and drops to a whisper: "I'll... be here."