A Series of Clato One Shots and Short Stories

The Only One

Trigger warning: Mentioning of self-harm, abuse, and depression.

3rd person POV

                   Clove was always the other one. She was a skimpy child neglected by her parents, who were too sidetracked by Clove's brother, Edward, the true fighter. At least, that's what they called him. Clove was regularly able to operate below the radar completely unnoticed, but when she was noticed, she was barraged with unrelenting judgment, and frequently she was beaten, left battered, and wounded with scars that she understood would never mend. It wasn't any better when she would go to school, considering her classmates would take precedence of Clove's diminutive build, and bully her, telling her that she was incompetent and a pitiful representation of the Kentwell family. The ironic thing is, Clove would never cry. Instead, she'd wrap her hatred into a firm cluster of emotions inside of her chest, convincing herself that the people who punched and tyrannized her, weren't deserving of her tears. They'd be sorry when she'd become the best in the academy. They'd pay when she would volunteer for the games someday and win. But at that moment, all that the eight-year-old girl had, were dreams. Fantasies about making her parents satisfied with her accomplishments for once, and reveries about being embraced into the social hierarchy, accepted by the other children. However, when she turned eleven, she recognized that her dreams were simply irrational expectations. It grew arduous for her to cope with her complex lifestyle, and she started to lose restraint of herself. She even went as far as stealing razors and slicing her wrists, convinced that the pain would lure her back to reality, and help her to get a handle on life again. On her twelfth birthday, and her first day at the academy, her parents starved her and sent her to school, but not until they had given her the daily beating. When Clove appeared at the school, she had a foul temper. Not only was she starting at a brand-new schoolhouse, but her family had entirely disregarded her birthday. 

                      She was tripped various times in the first hour, but it wasn't until her books scattered on the ground for the sixth time, that someone came to her aid. He was moderately tall, with untidy blonde locks and a winning smirk that spread to his polished sky-blue eyes when he laughed. He offered her his hand, which she gladly accepted, and told her his name was Cato. Just as her own name was escaping her lips, the bell sounded, indicating that they had to depart to proceed to class. Throughout all of her early lessons, she couldn't get her mind off of him. Call it a crush, if you wish, but Clove didn't even realize how that felt yet, she couldn't fully explain why she was thinking about him. It was at lunch when she was sitting alone in the cafeteria, picking at her meal, when Cato slipped onto the bench alongside her, smirking in a charming manner and making a suave statement about how an interestingly enigmatic girl like her lacked someone to figure her out. Presumably, that would be him. It began with meager discussions during lunch, but then it evolved to passing notes in class and taking prolonged strolls after school. Cato was the one who could get Clove to laugh, her genuine laugh, and Clove was the one Cato viewed like she was his undivided world. Did Cato find it weird that he had never been to Clove's house, or learned anything regarding her family? Of course, he did. However Clove was an extremely closed-off person, and Cato didn't want to pry and chance losing the honest bond that he had with Clove. 

                When Clove was thirteen, Cato asked her out. She enthusiastically agreed.

                  Clove was fourteen when she had her first public episode. It had been a stressful few months at the academy, packed with exams and strenuous training that had everyone tense and sore. Clove had exhibited no indications of over-exertion, and to Cato, she seemed like her typical, sarcastic, hard-working self. But one day, Cato appeared at practice to discover an unfamiliar scene. Each student, and multiple instructors, were assembled in the corner of the room. The main instructor was crouched down alongside a hunched-over figure, murmuring things that were intended to appease the frazzled student. As Cato moved closer, he distinguished the student as Clove. Her knees were hugged to her chest, exposing her wrists, which were trickling with blood. She kept shaking her head, and when she finally glanced up at Cato, he could tell that it was taking all of her willpower not to begin crying right then and there. She would be embarrassed if even one tear slid down her cheek, mortified that she allowed her guard to break and reveal her vulnerability. Something about her expression, her entire demeanor in fact, clearly screamed, 'Help me!' So Cato shoved through the gathering of whispering school children, solely stopping when he approached Clove's side. He knelt in front of her, the crease of his eyebrows enough for her to understand that he was asking her if she was ok. She shook her head, her eyes staring into his, every aspect of them begging him to take her aside to someplace secluded. So Cato soundlessly grabbed her hands, careful to avoid jabbing her shredded wrists, and drew her up, elbowing through the crowd until they reached the door. Cato silently led Clove outside, not resting until they arrived at a sequestered place, a foresty spot overshadowed by trees and obviously deserted. They both sat down and Cato took Clove's hand, wordlessly rummaging through his knapsack, (which he had brought with him, assuming that Clove's wrists would require tending to), and drew out an antiseptic wipe. He began to tenderly clean one of Clove's wrists, working to be as gentle as possible while still efficiently removing the blood. Clove cringed, her fingers settling over Cato's.