Slice

Slice

Slice

No voices - none - just canine panting. Snarling. Biting. Ripping. What were they ripping at? The tearing of teeth against...against flesh. They were ripping at him. The pain - it was indescribable - tore across himself, across his being. It felt as if he was being ripped apart from the inside. Limbs; lost among the dogs' feet. The ground; stained red.

Red.

Red.

.

Slipping. Slipping silently away.

.

All he could see, all he could feel. The red. The redness; that was what he lived for, trained for. To see the red of his victims spill across his feet, as he looked up proudly, and the audience of the Capitol would scream his name, and he would raise his arms, and the screams would get louder as the audience caught sight of his last victim's blood on his hands…..

Snap.

Snap.

.

Unnoticed, unimportant, in this cruel, dark world.

.

Bones cracking under razor-sharp teeth, splintering like twigs under feet. And red. There was always red. On his knife. On the ground. On him. On the dogs. The dogs' teeth; dripping red. He was red.

Then -

There

Were

Voices.

The boy.

And her.

If he could feel, he would scream.

But not for help.

Kill me.

.

We are human. We are not to be wasted and thrown away.

.

The dogs; tearing at his flesh, which he had little of left. Still, pain. Red was everywhere, blurring his vision, dulling his senses.

And yet he lay there,the fight that was always, always by his side draining out to nothingness and an empty world. The sounds and sights of the dogs broke away, like sand running through light fingers.

The dogs withdrew.

The pain, still there.

As if in a dream, a small girl stepped into his mind. No, it wasn't a dream. By the Cornucopia.

Her.

Katniss.

He opened what was left of his mouth, forming words he felt he'd forgotten, and yet he could her the vague dull vibration through his bloodied throat. Though he didn't hear them.

Please.

.

You will never forget us.

.

Cato's eyes fluttered shut, covering the dull blue orbs that once sparkled with life, windows to the soul that were never really looked at or looked inside of. No, inside was remorse. Remorse that Cato had been trained to forget. Trained to cover up. Trained to kill.

Yet it was still there. Still there after those countless years of telling to forget and not to forgive. Not to feel. And many assumed that Cato didn't feel, and this was why everyone looked up to him back home in District Two. Why people placed bets for Cato. Why they were sure he would win.

And then that one time. That one time when Cato realised he could not have killed Katniss. When he was sure of killing her, by the tree, he saw the terror in her eyes, the pure fear, that she tried so desperately hard to conceal. Like him, concealing remorse.

Behind his lids, there was nothing. Everything was black. Without a sound.

When Cato closed his eyes, he had expected peace, even solitude. A world of peace and of no killing.

What he had not expected was an even more torturous pain that blinded him. He couldn't open his eyes, but he didn't need to.

The pain paralysed him, in death or life or whatever this inbetween stage was. His head was cracking open, his brain slowly being pulled out.

Tears, hot, salty and flowing fast, dripped down his face and into his open mouth which was wide and gaping in a silent scream.

Please let me die.

.

We will be freed.

.

A roll of memories brought Cato back to that day, that awful day in the arena;

"I'll watch out, okay? I've got your back." with that he smiled a tired smile, but not weak. No, Cato was never weak.

She did not smile back. "Okay." she turned, back to Cato, and began her journey to the Cornucopia, the sky lightening as Cato watched her leave without looking back.

His name. Screamed. Ripping through the air, breaking the silence of death in the arena.

He trudged quickly through the brush, reaching her just too late, seeing Katniss and Thresh just disappear into the safe surroundings, leaving her, there, skull smashed in and dying quickly.

He threw his spear down, looking at her wound and eyes twitching as he realised it was too late. Much too late. He stared at her dying face, pale, ashen, hazel eyes losing their light, and she seemed smaller and weaker already. That face, once so determined-looking and fierce, full of fire and thirst for blood, was shrinking and shrivelling into the face of nothing more than another dead body from the Hunger Games.

She didn't smile, and neither did Cato. No words had to be said. Everything was said between their eyes, hazel against blue, the light slowly but surely fading from the hazel pair.

A single tear from the blue pair fell onto her dying forehead, and then she shuddered, falling still. Dead.

Cato's mind split again, and he tried to think, but the world was going to fast, and his silent screams were drying out, and he couldn't feel couldn't think -

Pain will set us free.

.

We will be guided to peace; to the light.

.

Through that endless haze of pain, Cato peered out.

A void. An empty void of nothing. Of white, of no ends.

A figure appeared from nowhere in the distance, dark-haired, hazel-eyed. The one who haunted his dreams. And reality.

There had always been another pair of star-crossed lovers in this Games.

As she drew closer, he saw that she wasn't an unmendable mess. Yet she didn't look unbreakable either.

The girl looked down on him. Cato felt the pain rapidly retreating. The ghost-like ability to stand up. Thoughts filled up his mind, wise thoughts. Understanding everything.

Cato was dead, but he understood why. He understood the Capitol. He understood Katniss, how important she was to bring peace. And him, Peeta. He would be vital too.

Their journey was just beginning, and Cato's had long since been destined to end.

.

We will not rest until she sets us free.

Her.

The Mockingjay.

.

And so he turned to her.

All he needed in this afterlife. In this observing of the real world. In this guiding to the peace that would come.

She was all he needed. And his lips formed one word, just one, but it was all he needed, after all.

"Clove."