Needing the Impossible (A Clato Fanfic)

Chapter 3

Due to the bloody brawl, I arrive home earlier than usual. My mother startles as I enter, not expecting me home for at least two more hours. Once she sees me, her face changes from surprise to concern. Some things can never change. “Clove, are you hurt?” she asks, sounding worried. This catches me off guard. If I'm bleeding at all, it's slight, which isn't that uncommon anyway. As far as I know, I have nothing other than bruises to show for my fight. I shake my head and continue to my room, assuming my early arrival has prompted the question. “Are you ill?” she persists.

“No, Mother, I'm fine,” I snap at her, passing the kitchen doorway where she stands. She grabs my arm, hindering my progress.

“You look dreadful,” she insists, and places her hand against my forehead. “You're warm.”

“Of course I'm warm!” I argue, brushing her hand away forcefully and recoiling from her touch. “What do you think I do all day? House work?” She purses her lips, but says nothing. I can tell she's tired of arguing. I let out a noise of exasperation and shove past her into my room.

Hanging from the far wall of my room is an old mirror, which has somehow survived all my years of turning my room upside down in frustration. I examine myself in it now. In the glass, I see a bedraggled, exhausted girl with absolutely no color in her cheeks. Her hair is falling out of her bun in crazy tendrils, giving her the appearance of having just woken from a hundred year sleep. No wonder Mother had asked how I was feeling. I do look awful. I should probably feel bad for yelling at her. I don't.

Staring blankly at my reflection, I contemplate the day's events. The realization of how close I came to death hits me in one sudden tidal wave. I barely make it to the trash bucket before my lunch comes back up. As I put the bucket down, I realize my hands are shaking furiously. I wipe my face off with a fresh pillow case Mother's left on my bed and take my hair down. I manage to get it brushed, but I'm shaking too much to pull it back up. I take another look at myself in the mirror; I'm paler than before, if that's possible. Wrapping myself in one of the clean sheets laid out on the bed, I curl up on my bed and focus on calming my nerves.

I can't afford to fall apart like this. Not even a little bit. So what if it's my first run-in with death? Fear, especially after the fact, is a huge weakness. If anyone were to sense my fear, I would become prey instead of predator. I cannot, at any cost, allow that to happen. To rid myself of this disabling sickness, I try to focus on the emotions that fueled me today: anger towards Cato, frustration with myself. Frustration with myself comes easily enough, as I'm already frustrated by my quaking, quivering body. Anger with Cato, however, is slightly harder to come by. Every time I try to picture him laughing at me – a thought intended to bring out my anger – I end up picturing him lying on the floor, nearly naked, teasing me. When I instead try to focus on the memory of him throwing spears – reminding me of the obstacle he's presenting through his skill as a potential tribute – I instead see images of him fighting me. This, of course, should anger me as well, but all I can think is how perhaps working with someone like that could actually help me improve. And what good would fighting him do anyway? I'm stuck with him no matter what. Why end every day's training early because we can't resist knifing each other?

Ugh! I leap off my bed, looking around for something to throw, but everything was demolished in yesterday's tantrum. I resort to punching the wall, which ends up doing more damage to me than the plaster. But it helps. I hit the wall in the same spot, over and over again, trying to dent it in, trying to drive any positive thoughts about Cato out of my mind. To think well of him will only make me more susceptible to trickery, or flat out failure. I have to hate him. After a while, my knuckles begin to bleed, and I realize I'm getting nowhere. The wall is still flat, and my mind is still spinning in unending circles.