It was late May. The flowers had started to bloom, the once decayed soil finally agreeing with our crops; that was the issue with District 12, it was dying.

The people, the architecture, the land, we are being killed. It's a laughable statement really. They are seen as gracious, for letting us live out our short spans of life, they could execute the lot of us on the spot.

Only they wouldn't.

We are needed, we are the sheep, sheared to clothe the greedy hand that feeds us. Feed is an exaggeration, everyone I know is starved. Some, those naive few, still believe in the myth of being saved, it's pathetic. Every dismal version of this tale ends the same; with us being slaughtered.

Man is a moral animal. You can persuade a human to commit any heinous act, only once you have convinced them it is moral. It's conditioning at its finest. People like us, we are eaten alive and assured that we do not bare teeth.

That is where they made their first mistake.

I bite.

They rob us of our lives, we could be human. Just the notion of that, it's absurd, they take our hearts and our humanity and expect us to just roll over and accept it. The most poignant part of it is that we have. We've accepted. We've died.

My name, the burden that trails behind me as I breathe, is in 38 times today. 12 more than last year; if there is a God, he must fucking hate children. I'd caught Tanzin Xanthus consoling her elder sister, the Xanthus family had always been on the lowest end of the economy, their parents had been "disposed" of years ago, a lack of compliance supposedly.

Mother called it a tragedy, the Xanthus' called it a target, intentional and precise. I suppose it was both. They were always a touch too risky, and went a bit too far. I can scarcely remember them now, my only recollection is a large deer, and lots of laughter.

Their demise left Rhoswen Xanthus with only one option, tesserae. It was her last year, she had turned 18 the previous October, this would be her last reaping. The last time she would wait in line and feel her blood run cold with dread, as our leery escort would drip their long, slender fingers into the god-fearing bowl and kill someone with the words excreted from their mouth.

I try not to remember the names.

I used to, they'd eat me alive, the tributes stolen from us, their deadened skin rotting, they are maggots inside me, burrowing away at my flesh, the envy of my defying life killing them more than the games ever did.

I don't think I've had a chance to be alive. Not yet, no, I imagine the sweet relief of death from this limbo of suffering will liberate me before anything changes. Rhoswen would agree, her name is in 24 more times than my own, the odds are in neither of our favours.

This year is different. We all knew, it had been announced publicly, the second Quarter Quell would be unlike the first. The first was 25 years ago, when my own mother was scarcely out of the reaping pool, where President Snow announced that each district would vote their tributes in. Sadistic freak.

It was a mess of course, parents inconsolable; that was one, if not the only, time in Hunger Games history that the tributes were mainly those of mayoral blood. It wasn't their fault, they didn't ask to be born into a marginally better life than the rest of us, but people have a funny idea of justice, sending off the weakest, the most untrained, the ones used to a life of fresh food and clean clothes.

I've seen the footage, mother forced Lysander and I to stomach it, she warned us, nobody is safe this year. They've yet to announce the catch, but mother is preparing for the worst.

District 4 won that year, it was the turning point of the whole thing, Dorethea Wilmot (the daughter of Mayor Wilmot), managed to use the arena to her advantage. The gamemakers had been harsh, the whole terrain was icy, most of the tributes froze on the first nights. However, the water beneath the ice was warm, that was how Dorethea drowned the rest of her opponents and was crowned victor.

What an absolutely terrifying way to die.

Every house has a screen, even ours, it's large and you cannot turn it off, it's controlled by the capitol, forcing us to witness the repercussions of our sin. Brother kills brother each year, the blood stains our hands, it gets passed down and the thought of washing them clean is discouraged.

We must carry the ruin. We are sinners. We must burn. We have no choice.

Mother and Lysander are still at home, they're probably dusting or cooking. He's always been the favourite, that brother of mine, and I can't say I blame them. He brightens our bleak little world up; he's the perfect child, despite being half Seam. He is the poster child, tall, blonde and strong, he got our mother's looks. My unruly hair is tamed by his, he laughs where I do not so much as smile, he hugs whilst I stand rigid.

His name is in 6 times.

It seems miniscule compared to my whopping 38, but that is still 6 chances of my brother being torn away from us. 6 chances of him dying in an arena full of children, all desperately trying to win. Nobody really wins the Hunger Games, it's not a victory, it's a statement. The Capitol owns us. That's all it is, it's a flashy show declaring our defeat. Again, and again. Year after year. Neverending.

Volunteers are rare, especially here. District 12 hasn't had a tribute volunteer in over two decades, we stand no chance against the training districts, more commonly known as careers. It's illegal to give official training to the tributes before they are taken to the Capitol, however District 1, 2 and 4 often get away with it, having their trained competitors volunteer for the scared soul whose name got picked. I imagine all districts would do that if they could, watching your own get sent to the slaughter every year isn't exactly fun.

District 12 does have some hidden gems of beauty, the deep sunset over showing the large, vivacious trees of our forest. Well, it's not really ours, the electric fence around our border with the huge neon sign stating, "Do Not Enter!!" kinda hints at that.

My secret spot has the perfect view of the sky, victor's village remains empty, and the sides of the houses are easy to scale. The tops of the roofs are slanted, a grey shell pattern covering them. It's the one place nobody can find me, even if they care to look.

From where I sat, I had an overview of the trees, the fence and to the left, the Seam. Our house is on the outskirts, my mother from the better part of the district and my father the worst. It wasn't as run down as it used to be, when my father still had a beating heart, empty bottles and blood littered our household. Alcohol was an ugly temper. Mother did not smile when he was home, she shook in fear, a captive in her own home, he was our God.

Commands barked at us, glasses shattered by our heads, bruises and blemishes of violence scattering our skin, I always took the brunt of it. Something about my face angered him, maybe it was like looking in a mirror. The mirror of what could have been. According to mother, he was once gentle. He had dreams, to be a father, to care for us. What bullshit. Lysander used to sleep under my bed.

The monsters couldn't get him there.

Mother would turn it into a game, she'd fantasise our father, he was an ogre, and we had to hide or else he'd get us. A fairytale spin of two children getting beaten black and blue by the man meant to protect them. He was my first villain, most children have heroes, people they admire, idols to grow into, no, he was everything I resented, I spent my childhood clawing my way out of his grip, changing myself at every turn. Lysander had it easy, he didn't have to look at his reflection and see our father's eyes staring back at him.

That man, my creator, was why my name was offered to death more than needed. He blew all our income on drinking himself to the brink and then charging through it. One day our prayers were answered.

It was still winter, I had to take Lys the long way home, snow covering the path we usually took, the school was rundown, standing just off the centre of the merchant's section, it always took us around an hour to get there and back, Lysander would cling to my hand, our palms cold, running when the silhouette of our small house came into view.

Normally, we'd go straight outside to check on our minimal amount of self grown crops, watering and uprooting weeds, our mother wouldn't return for hours, doing washing and chores for the richer members of District 12. Mother's fingers were always red, often peeling, they were rough but she used them softly; cradling our faces, rubbing our backs as she held us close, she told us her hands were the proof of her love, all the work she did, was for us.

That day was different. Usually, the cacophonous sound of our father's snoring would greet us, warning us to be quiet, tread carefully and whisper quietly; he spent his nights drinking and days napping. That day however, silence encapsulated us as we entered the house. I had pushed Lys back, telling him to go to our room and do his homework, and I crept into the lounge; it was my fathers den, his dungy cave that reeked of liquor and vomit; we were never meant to enter, not without his explicit permission, but that day I was brave.

Father was bent over the empty bottles that he treasured over his kin, his chest unmoving. That was my first time seeing a dead body in real life. I do not recall what happened immediately after, mother said that was common with shock. But my father's body was taken, and our house felt lighter.

It felt good.

From my vantage point, on the roof of an unused house in Victor's Village, a willowy figure appeared to emerge from the trees past the fence. They were tall and holding something large, wrapped in a khaki cover. It did not surprise me that people were bypassing the rules set in place, following orders didn't get you much, just a prolonged sentence of living. I couldn't yet make out the person's features, their stature tall, and slender. It was just before sunrise, the mockingjays only now settling down, when the figure did something peculiar. They pushed their lips together and whistled a tune; one by one, the birds carried the song across the border.

How cute.

Befriending nature was not at the top of my priorities. The distance between Victor's Village and the fence was only around 50 metres or so, my gaze hardened, trying to focus on the face of the miscreant whose bravery far out mastered my own. As they got closer, I could begin to make out the difference in their clothing; their boots were sturdy and black, that of the men who mine yet the cleanliness of their attire persuaded me otherwise.

It was not obvious whether they had spotted me yet, I had never been a small person, yet, for a reason unbeknownst to myself, I cowered. It was like a game, I could see and they could not.

Their strides were long and confident, so sure in their actions, my eyes trailed their body. They had to be at least 6'3", possibly taller, and whilst slim, their arms were sturdy, whatever they were carrying was heavy, yet they did not buckle at the weight even once.

I watched as they approached the fence, my interest was piqued. Everybody knows that the fence is electric, one wrong move and you're zapped and brought back to your family via peacekeepers, which is humiliating for all parties involved. Yet, worry did not cross their features.

They were close enough now, I could make out the curve of their lips, the scar on their cheek, the messy hair that laid beneath. Their skin was olive, a telling sign of being born to the Seam, and their eyes a deep brown. I did not recognise them.

Their large hand reached out toward the fence. I almost jumped to tell them no, to stop them. Almost.

They touched it. They touched it and they moved it, revealing a gap. A gap big enough to fit a grown man through. They moved the khaki cover first, pushing it through and then following suit. Their movements were graceful, like a rabbit, moving quickly. The carefree attitude had disappeared, they began to act with caution, checking to see if anyone was watching. No one was of course, no one except me.

My eyes averted for no more than a second, and the person was gone.

How very odd.

I swung my legs to the side of the large house and gently scrambled down. It had become routine, there were several flower pots, brooms and ladders to aid my escape, all meticulously put there by myself. My feet hit the gravel path and I dusted off my knees. It was times like these that I envied the upper class, the things I would do to have strong footwear. Mother insists on making all of Lysander and I's clothes, and whilst she's not bad at it, sometimes I long for the luxury of new regalia.

I turned out of Victor's Village and toward the market. It was never very busy at this time of night, people often closing up shop and heading home to see their families, eat dinner and chime on and on about their days.

I ventured on, turning left and coming face to face with the Hob.

The Hob was District 12's black market, you could trade anything, I knew it well. Father would often send Lysander or I out to buy more liquor, and they became quite accustomed to our visits.

As I enter, I notice Sae selling hot soup; Sae has been a part of the Hob for as long as I remember, mother always told us, if it gets overcrowded, find Sae. She's a small woman in her mid 40s, her hair dark blonde, with white streaks running through the back. She told us that they were her age lines; getting old was something to be celebrated in District 12, the opportunity was not offered to many, living past 30 was a feat, disease was everywhere, creeping up on souls who had nothing left to give. Sae noticed me almost immediately, her warm smile beckoned me over.

"Soup?" she asked, offering me a bowl.

I checked my pocket, desperately hoping to find some coins, "Going to have to pass this time, Sae."

I offered her my empty pockets and she smiled, her hand still out, the bowl of steaming hot soup watering my mouth.

"Go on, it's meat."

I looked at her sceptically, "Meat? No way, I'm not eating dog soup again, once was enough to ruin my insides."

She laughed heartily, "Not that kind of meat," she paused for a second and leaned in, our faces closer together, "It's deer, some lad brought it in, wanted to trade."

My eyes widened, any kind of protein around here was rare, we usually had to settle for dog meat found off the street, but deer? I hadn't had deer since, since the Xanthus' were still around.

"Sae, you better not be fucking with me."

Her chuckles filled my ears yet again, "I am not, go on, take some back for your poor mother too. I owe her, she managed to get rid of this god awful stain."

"Who brought the deer?" I asked.

"Oh, you know, I never caught his name. He was after white liquor, and with a deer that size, no one was gonna refuse. Nice bloke. All he asked was for no questions, you know how folks are."

Interesting. Very interesting.

Sae all but shoved the soup into my arms, essentially asking me to bugger off, and so I obeyed. She did have a point, my mother did deserve something nice, even if it was only deer soup.

Walking out of the Hob, I followed the winding pathways toward my home. I only recently started referring to it as that, my home, before, it was just a place. Fear was prominent and nothing could be said without worried glances and hushed voices.

Mother changed the exterior as much as the interior, she planted honeysuckle and, with Lysander's help, grew flowers in the front. The wood was still rotten, but every spring we'd chop some new wood and replace what we lost in the winter, staining it with berries too dangerous to eat.

Our home was brighter, friends came and went and mother could relax, she no longer had to protect herself in the place meant to protect.

I carefully opened the door, the soup held in a large serving bowl Sae made me swear to bring back in one piece, and moved toward our kitchen. Lysander and I had crafted a table together a couple summers back, with chairs to match and everything.

As I stepped inside, 3 pairs of eyes stared back.

Mother, Lysander and Tanzin Xanthus.

I smiled and gestured to the soup, "Sae insisted. Hey Tanzin, long time no see."

Niceties pained my insides, but I could make an exception for the girl I was 99% sure my brother was in love with.

Her cheeks flushed, "Hello Haymitch."

If embarrassment could be conveyed as a human, it was Lysander. His normally pale cheeks were bright red and his eyes were staring straight at the ground. My mother stood up and took the soup right out of my hands.

"Thank you, sweetheart. Oh my, still warm! What a treat this is. Tanzin, will you be joining us?" she asked, eyeing the younger girl, a smile fixated on her lips.

Tanzin grinned, "I'd love to, Mrs Abernathy, but I better get back to Rhoswen, she's um sick, yeah she's sick."

She looked sheepish.

"Maybe another time?" Lysander offered, hope scarring his face.

She beamed, "Yeah, yeah I'd love that. Thank you."

Lysander jumped out of his seat, "I'll walk you to the door."

"My, a true gentleman. Bye Mrs Abernathy! Haymitch." She nodded.

I nodded back. As they were out of earshot, I edged toward my mother. She smelt of soap and smoke, her clothes long and drab, cinched by her apron. She was dishing the soup between three bowls, each with individual chips in them. She always said it didn't matter what they looked like, that they held our food and we should be thankful. She was always right about that sort of thing.

Lysander returned and we all sat together, eating our soup in comfortable silence.

The reaping is in under two months, I cannot face the dead reality that he may be reaped. However, I know, deep within my bones, that if it comes to that, I'd volunteer in an instance. I despise the fact that being a good person does not protect you from bad people.

Lysander is a star, what pain the stars must bear.

I do not care what it takes, I will seize that pain from him and carry it myself.

Some days I am tired of being human, and angry for feeling so much love in a world full of hate. Most days, I am angry just for being alive. I do not care if I am damned, I will break every rule, I will tear apart this fucked up reality, I will get our freedom.

Not just for me. For him.