Raised for the Slaughter: Clove's Story

 Chapter One

I wake up sweating and confused. It's not hot. The air is cool, even. I don't remember having a bad dream. I sit up slowly, removing the sheets from on top of me. I stand and walk over to my window. I forgot to close it last night. The cool air seeps through. I decide to keep it open until I leave. Who knows, today could be my last day breathing in District 2's crisp morning air. I turn to my closet and grab a plain black shirt and tight black pants. I want to try to be as inconspicuous as I possibly can be this morning. Once I slip on my clothes, I look in my mirror right above my dresser. I look absolutely tired. I didn't get much sleep last night. Hardly anybody does the night before the reaping.

Today is the day of the reaping of the 74th Hunger Games. The Hunger Games. The way the Capitol reminds us of their complete control over us, all twelve districts. I shouldn't be nervous. I've been training for this for practically my whole life, ever since I could walk. Plus, with all the people living in District 2, what are the odds of my name being chosen? I've gone through 3 years of the reaping already, today being my 4th, without being chosen. The only requirements of the tributes are that one is male and one is female and both are within the ages of twelve and eighteen. So being sixteen, my name is still in my large bowl of with names of each twelve to eighteen year old written neatly on small pieces of paper. My name happens to be in there 4 times. Every year each child is in the reaping, their name gets added another time. Unless they get tesserae. Then their name is added more times. Thanks to my family being well off, I've never once had to sign up for tesserae.

My father carves marble. He can turn the ugliest slab of marble into the most detailed statue of a beautiful woman. Most of his work gets sent to the Capitol. He has a couple of men that work for him, loading up trains of his eloquent work to be sent to an even more eloquent place. I like to stand by and watch my dad at work. I like the fact that the chisel is so sharp, it can cut into the hard rock. Being an only child, I'm expected to take up the family business. But no matter what, I don't have one artistic bone in my body. Art doesn't interest me anyway. Neither does making bricks or other sorts of structural equipment, which is what my district is known for. Masonry. There's only one thing I know I love: going to the school gym, which our district has turned into a training center, and throwing knives, my specialty. Maybe I was meant to be in The Hunger Games. I quickly shoo the thought from my head.

I grab my brush and run it through my long, dark, straight, silky hair. I put it up in a tight ponytail. I walk out of my room and head to the front door of my house. On my way, I pass my father's workshop, which takes up half of our house, and find the door slightly ajar. I look in and see my father with his head on his desk sleeping. Probably tried to pull an all-nighter, against my mother's wishes. I softly walk over to the front door and slip on my soft, supple black leather boots that are beside the door. I open the door and slip out quietly. I walk through the town square carrying a quick pace. I walk for a couple minutes until I see the big gray building hidden by a couple trees. I go to the other side where the back door to the gym is. I check to see if it's locked. Nope. I open it slowly and step inside. I see a figure sitting in a chair on the far side of the gym. I turn on the lights, illuminating the large gym, complete with life-sized dummies and walls with weapons of choice. A blonde hair, green eyed, tall man in his mid 30s in a gray shirt and black pants stands up from the chair. Itâs Slater, my trainer. I smile.

"You wanted to see me?" I say.

"Well good, morning, Clove," he responds sarcastically.

"Good morning, Slater," I smile and roll my eyes.

"I wanted to get in one last training session before this afternoon." He says looking down at his feet, "Just in case."

I shift my weight from one foot to the other. "Ok, good."