Needing the Impossible (A Clato Fanfic)

Chapter 2

Chapter 2:

I lay in my bed, knees curled up to my chest, blocking everything out. Seeing Father hit my mother is bothering me far more than I like. I can't allow emotions like this to work their way into my system. They'll only create weakness. That weakness will make me feel sorry for my mother, even guilty about what happened, and then I may lose my resolve. I cannot, will not, let that happen.

I stare at the miniature hills formed by wrinkles in my sheets and focus on going numb. I do this quite a lot, actually, and it gets easier every time. I erase the memory of my mother's tears and replace it with the memory of my father's anger. His anger had matched my own, and that is what I need to focus on. It works, I begin to again feel the resentment towards my mother that had been boiling in me previously. Instantly, I feel better, less vulnerable, more powerful. I feed on these brewing thoughts and emotions until I fall into an uneasy sleep.

I awake the next morning to the sound of the front door slamming. After I dress, I enter the kitchen to find Mother sitting in a lone chair, head in her hands. Apparently the fighting had not ended with the previous day. I immediately block out any feelings of sympathy or remorse. This is the woman who wants me to quit my training, I tell myself. Focusing on the thoughts that I'd imprinted in my brain the night before, I eat a swift breakfast and leave for the schoolhouse.

My studies go by at a monotonous pace. This is intensified by the fact that I firmly believe that nothing I'm learning here will ever help me in the future. If it isn't applicable in the arena, it won't help me. Once I win the Games, whether or not I have a decent education will be the last thing on everyone's mind. However, the lessons finally do end. And I somehow manage to make it through the day without getting called out for bad behavior. Go me.

I rush out of the schoolyard and head directly to the large training facility on the other side of town. It's a good walk, nearly a mile, to get from the schools to the training facility, so I don't arrive for another ten minutes after I leave school. Even at this brisk pace, Cato has still beaten me. He's outside, talking with Fabrizio, when I walk up. How the hell had he done that? I had left the school immediately, and I know he didn't pass me. Then I see it. A sleek, black car flies by me, flinging dust up as it passes me. My face flushes with rage. He got a ride from his father? In a car? There's no way he didn't pay to be here. His father can't truly believe in hard work if he gives him a free ride to training every day. I turn my hostile gaze back to where Cato and Fabrizio are standing. My trainer's back is to me, but Cato can see my face clearly, and he smirks when he sees my expression. Ugh. I hate him already. Not only his he a rich prat, he's also a rich, arrogant, self-absorbed prat. As we follow Fabrizio into the building, I find myself thinking of ways to sabotage him so I can have private training again. I go so far as murder, and then do a double take. Would I really be willing to kill him just so I could be trained privately again?

“Spears,” Fabrizio's voice interrupts my thoughts before I reach a sure verdict. “We worked with knives all afternoon yesterday. We're switching to spears today, which will be good for you, Clove, since I've never even had you pick one up.” I'm not overly thrilled by this idea. The bigger you are, the easier it is to handle a spear. Mass, of course, is not something I have an abundance of.

Cato, however, does, and he proves to be absolutely fantastic with spears. At least he has talent, even if his father is paying for his training. He can hit the center of a target from over twenty yards, while I'm lucky to even hit the target from ten. His laughs and jeers, which go unabated by Fabrizio, make my introduction to this particular weapon rather horrible.

This maddening exercise has been going on for about an hour, and my right arm is trembling slightly as I pick up the spear to hurl it towards the target. Cato, standing several yards from me, slightly to my right, gives a degrading snort and smirks arrogantly as he watches my pathetic efforts. That does it. I've put up with his mockery long enough. In one swift motion, I turn my body towards him, and hurl the spear at him, my muscles fueled by a sudden burst of adrenaline. The blunt practice weapon misses its target, his head, by mere inches. He stands there, slightly shocked by this sudden action, as I race over to the safe and type in the code to open it. Just as I'm reaching for my all-to-real and all-to-sharp knives, I hear movement behind me and know Cato is planning on retaliation. Good, that's what I'm counting on. I sling my jacket on, grabbing a knife from one of its internal pockets.