Born to Die (Clato Fanfic)

Disclaimer: All characters are the creation of Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games except for a few characters such as Clove's parents, Cato's parents, academy students and a few others of my creation.

Chapter One

I was familiar with the screams. The screams that haunted me, keeping me up during the early hours of the morning. The screaming and yelling that brought my mother to my bedside, telling me that Daddy would be okay, he was just having another tantrum. The lies she whispered in my ear. They seemed comforting at the time.

She told me that everything was okay between them.

Wrong.

He didn't mean to hurt her.

Wrong.

He'll stop drinking ,but he's going through some tough times.

Wrong again.

He really does love you.

Liar.

I tried to believe her, but the sound of plates crashing, my mother crying, and my drunk father yelling and swearing at her made it hard to believe. I honestly didn't think it could get any worse, but I suppose at eight years old you haven't seen it all.

I remember everything, and I have a feeling those memories will stay that way. The slam of our front door had woken me up just like every night. I glanced at the clock that read 2:35. He was home later than usual. I heard my mother's foot steps pace across the floor. She stupidly asked the same pointless question, just like every other night. "Roland where have you been?"

"Drinking again," he said with his words slurring together.

I crept out of bed, following their voices in my striped pajamas. The terrifying arguing began. The neighbors stopped coming over to see what was the matter a few months ago. We were all used to the screams. She yelled something about him being a horrible father. He said she wasn't a good wife. I wished I didn't have ears. Something was different. Was it the way she was yelling back just as loud as he was? Or was it the fact that my mother wasn't crying, she always was. I peeked out from behind the wall and instantly wished I hadn't. Roland was threatening her with a knife. He had been very good at throwing and I was certain his aim was still accurate even while drunk.

"You wouldn't hit me!" she screamed at him.

"Well Amelia, maybe if you would get a job I could afford more drinks, and I wouldn't have this knife in my hand!"

"I don't need a job as long as we're loyal to the Capitol!"

I covered my ears as he fired dozens of swears at her.

He won't throw the knife. He won't hurt her.

I watched as they screamed at each other. I watched my tears soak my pajama sleeves. I watched him throw the knife and miss her head. I watched as the knife clattered at my feet. I couldn't move. I watched him grab another, and tell her how worthless she was. My hand slowly reached down to grab the handle of the weapon. I heard her tell me to go back to bed, but I didn't budge. I closed my eyes as he smashed the last of the dishes. That's when she screamed. I didn't look up. I knew. I didn't want to know, but I did. I removed my hands from my eyes. I shouldn't have. Time stopped as I saw my mother laying on the ground with a knife in her chest. Her face was ghastly pale, and her body was twisted at awkward angles. I didn't want to believe it.He had thrown the knife. My own father had killed my mother, and might as well have killed me. My eyes were blurry and useless. I realized he was screaming again. What more could he want from her. That's when I realized he was yelling at me.

"You stupid child! What are you doing here?!"

I was furious. I didn't think. I remembered the knife in my hand and threw. The knife flung through the air with whooshing sound. His eyes widened and he seemed as surprised as I was. He dodged it for the most part but it still skimmed his hip. His cries pierced the night as I ran out of the house. I wished it hit his heart. I ran through the poor sector of District 2, and could barely see as I tripped over several tree roots in my way. I didn't care as I fell and my hands met gravel. I couldn't get up. I was going to die right there in someone's front yard. My body violently shook as the tears burned my face.

I hate him. I hate him. I hate him.

I didn't see her face. I never said goodbye, not even to her dead body. I guess there was no point. Maybe she wasn't dead, but I knew she really was. My throat burned as I tried to get the twisted images out my head. My beautiful mother with blood soaking through her nightgown.

I returned to the house a few days later. My father was sitting at the kitchen table, and my mother's blood was stained on the wood floor. I quickly looked away and instead took a seat at the table. It was probably stupid, even though I was only eight it doesn't take a genius to know to stay away from a murderer. He was sober, but looked like he could have a breakdown any minute. He didn't see me at first but kept his hands over his eyes. He was crying. I didn't want to be here, I knew I hated him, so why was I?

"Clove," he sighed realizing I was there.

"Where is she?" I demanded with a shaky voice. I was desperate for the information.

"Dead." he said into his trembling hands.

There it was, the truth hitting me right in the face, but the impact didn't hurt as much as I'd expected. I chewed on my lip to keep from crying.

He ran his fingers through his hair.
"I'm just as upset as you are."

I clenched my teeth and tried my best not to kill him right there. "I doubt it."

"I'm done drinking. I can't believe that I killed her. I'm done, I swear."

"Good, but you're not."

"I'm trying." his voice cracked at the end and he let out a thundering sob.

For a split second I believed him. We could be a happier family. I would be without a mother but we could make it work. I instantly pushed away those thoughts because it was never happening and I needed my mother in this perfect family fantasy. "I'm leaving."

"Wait, Clove! I think you should start practicing throwing."

What?

"So I can be reminded of my own mother's death? Thanks." I couldn't believe him. After killing my mother he still managed to insult me.

"No, so you can kill me next time." He lifted up his shirt to show a deep wound in his side. I saw a ghost of a smile as he slide three decent knives into my hand. "Become the best knife thrower the games have ever seen." I would have taken this as an invitation for my death, but I knew what he meant. I could bring honor, rewrite my story. He was trying to help me. He was trying to make up for ruining my life. I could never ever forgive him, but maybe I could eventually stand living with him, but not now. "No thanks," I said pushing the knives back at him.

"Please Clove, I promise, I promise. Now please just do this and help yourself." He was really crying now.

"I don't want to."

"You could go to the Academy, I'd pay."
I almost choked. The Academy was any child's dream. I wanted this more than anything. I didn't want to say yes, but I was also begging for it. I wanted it so, so bad. We locked eyes and I saw the hope dwindling out of his.

If I joined the Academy my life would turn around. I would have a chance at fame, fortune, and happiness. I would learn to train for The Hunger Games. I would learn to win.

I silently nodded as I reached for the knives. I had to do this. His satisfaction sent anger rushing through my body. He thanked me over and over again as I got up from the table to leave. I hated myself, but I knew I made the right decision. "I still hate you," I called over my shoulder. "And I will never forgive you."

I didn't have anywhere else to go. I didn't thank him, but headed straight toward the woods. I was going to do this. I would forget this life and start a new one. All my built up anger could be put to good use. I was going to train. More importantly I was going to win the Hunger Games.