BORN TO DIE | CLATO (THG)

TWELVE

CLOVE KENTWELL

My sleep that night is plagued with nightmares. Visions of me in the arena, my knives out of reach, invisible ropes coiling around my body, my neck, rendering me silent and completely motionless. Visions of me, lying in a pool of my own blood on the cold hard ground of the arena. Visions of me, on top of Cato, slitting his throat. Me, with his blood dripping from my teeth.

I wake, feeling as if I have been doused in ice cold water. With a rush of panic, I taste the copper tang of blood in my mouth. A trembling hand flies up to my lips to find ragged skin. My fingers come away crimson. I allow myself a short, shaky breath of relief. I must've just bitten my lips in my sleep.

"Clove, sweetie!" A shrill voice from outside of my room calls out, and is soon followed by a series of loud knocks against the door. I stuff the duvet into my mouth in an effort to silence the sounds of my laboured breathing. "It's breakfast time! Hurry up, before training starts!" I wait there entangled in my blankets, staring at the hardwood surface of my door until I hear Monique's high heels clicking away.

I pull the duvet away from me and let it fall onto my lap. Slowly, I crawl from my bed and start to prepare for the day's events, all the while murmuring things to myself under my breath.

You're fine, Clove. It was just a dream. You're fine. It's not real. But it will be. No, it won't. Shut up. You know I'm right. Shut up, Clove. All you have to do is train and win. You'll be fine.

I stand in front of the mirror, assessing my appearance in the glass. I'm dressed in my Capitol-issued training attire, a tight fitting black shirt and matching pants, both items of clothing lined in a shade of dark red. I've brushed my dark hair back into a half-braided ponytail so that it doesn't get in the way during training. I grip the skin on my inner left wrist in a hard pinch. The pain is what clears my head. The pain is what always clears my head.

I feel better already. I lace up my training shoes from the Capitol and head out of my bedroom and into the dining room, where everyone is already waiting.

I slide into the seat next to Cato at the dining table, not because I want to, but because it's the only vacant one. The awkwardness between us because of last night is palpable. I wonder if the people here with us can tell.

"You're late," Enobaria comments. I look up at her. Her smooth dark hair, perfectly made-up face and fine clothing are at odds with the wine glass clutched in her hand and the foggy look of inebriation that clouds her eyes. She raises her eyebrows at me sarcastically. "Too busy prettying yourself up for today?"

I'm not in much of a mood to joke around with anyone today. "You aren't one to talk," I say and nod in the direction of her wine glass. "Keep that up and you'll end up like another Haymitch Abernathy from Twelve. Plummeting off stages during Reapings."

That in itself is an insult, and Enobaria rightfully takes it as one. She rises in her seat, glowering at me. I think that I've finally done it to myself and I'll die before the Games even start, but Alvaro shoots her a meaningful glare and she reluctantly sits down.

She bares her fangs at me. "Don't think that just because I'm your mentor I won't rip your throat out."

I know I should probably shut my mouth, but I retort, "I'd like to see you try."

Enobaria leaps up from her seat once more and I think I'm actually dead meat this time, but Alvaro thankfully starts talking. "So, as you all know, today is your first day of training. Probably shouldn't be that hard for you guys considering all you've done in Two is train. Regardless, we will still give you some instructions you need to follow for today."