My childhood has always been a singular effort.

My father works all day, and some nights too in order to feed our family. My mother had always paid attention to the antics of my older siblings. With four children, my parents had more than enough to deal with. Even as a small child, at four or five, I recognized that I was always last. Mother just loved the others more. She would give Rosea a piggy-back ride to school, and I, the younger sibling, would walk beside them, always separate, always wishing for my mother's love.

My father was kind to me. But those moments were fleeting, like the wisps of snow that fell in our district one winter. Coming from District 6, my father worked for a logistics company, planning the new highways, and railroads, and organizing shipments from the districts to the Capitol. His job was demanding, and sometimes he would work all through the night, to make sure the Capitol received electric toothbrushes from District 3 on time.

For that reason, I hated the Capitol as a small child. I felt as if they had stolen my father and washed away the time he and I had together.

At times, we would go without dinner, because there wasn't enough food. I know now that mother sometimes wanted the children to disappear. Well, me, at least. I was just the extra. The accident. Bentley, my eldest brother, was already old enough to marry off, and he left the dinner table with one more plate of food. Still, we were hungry. My mother still looked upon me as a mistake. I didn't know it at the time, but I realize her feelings towards me now.

One of mother's children would disappear. But not the one she wanted.

I had a very weak grasp of the Hunger Games before six. I thought that it was an annual show consisting of actors and very good fake blood. My mother didn't bother explaining it to me, and my father didn't have the time. But then came my second brother's first reaping. His name was reaped.

I still remember the day. I was wearing a faded and tattered yellow dress that had belonged to Rosea. I remember being so excited for my brother when he was reaped, thinking that he was going to be an actor in the games.

I remember asking my mother "When will Joseph be back?" When she heard me, a red fog seemed to cloud her eyes. She spat swords at me with her words, and I didn't know what I had done, but I knew that it was very wrong. That night, my father explained to me. The games were real. Joseph would not come back. I cried.

I watched the chariot ride, the interviews, watched Joseph get a three in training. I looked up at my mother, who was clutching Rosea in a loving embrace, and asked her if that was good. She had no response but a look that could melt steel. Finally, the games began. I watched Joseph die in the Bloodbath and felt that I finally understood. At six, three years my sister's junior, I watched every moment of the 45th Hunger Games, while she and my mother shied away. My mother despised me for watching the boy from District 1, who had killed Joseph, massacre his final opponent and win the games. But I grew up, far faster through that experience. I realized that mother would never love me. That I would have to take charge of my life.

Mother grew more and more reserved, more fragile and more on the edge ever since Joseph left. She became, dare I say it, insane. She turned to morphine, and would leave the house, sometimes for days on end, and then come back and take the food and the money and leave again.

Finally, she left one day, never to come back. Rosea suffered from the loss. But I didn't. I had my own world, and mother was not a part of it. We were left at home alone most of the time, because my father worked, and I pursued my own interests. Science. I checked out books from the dingy library two blocks down and learned the name of every animal and plant in the district. Music. I learned to play the harmonica, even if I wasn't that good. Running. I could run, run away from the chaos that defined my life, for just a couple of hours to feel the wind in my hair.

Because father was so busy with work, he didn't mind me not going to school. I pursued what I wanted- physics, anatomy, whatever struck my fancy. And always running. Running had become an escape for me. I could run through the trees, and feel my problems melt away. I was happy with my own life, and my family was pretty well off, now that there was only three of us. But it always lingered, the thought of the games that had taken my brother, and, effectively my mother's life.

When I was seven, I realized that I would have to be prepared, and began watching anything I could find on the Hunger Games. I analyzed the tributes, saw what attracted sponsors, and tried to guess who would win it all. I never guessed right though. Partly, this had to do with the fact that I would never pick a District 1 tribute to win, out of respect for Joseph.

I found the games complex and mesmerizing, something I could constantly learn more about. Although a strange sort of beverage, it quenched my thirst for knowledge.

Then came my sister's first reaping, when I was nine. She sniffled into line with the other girls, and cried tears of joy when she found out the female tribute wasn't her. She was apparently oblivious to the fact that an entirely different type of tear was being shed only feet away. I hoped that she would never be reaped, because I felt that she was much too fragile, and that she would most likely have a panic attack on the stage, which I knew by then was terrible for getting sponsors.

When my first reaping came though, I felt the same terror that she showed, and as I fell in line with the other girls my age, I felt part of a tree, each girl a shaking leaf. Our district's escort, Javinia Delphin, stepped up to the round glass fishbowl, holding the names, and pulled a slip out.

"Corina Prescott!"

Wails erupted from one family, and a blond girl, who looked around 17 or 18, took to the stage, trying hard not to cry. I had to cover my mouth with my hands to stifle my cry of joy. I quickly reprimanded myself for being so selfish, and made a vow that from then on, I would be silent and respectful during the reaping. The next reaping, I stood in line, thirteen years old, in dead silence. "Waverly Waterloo!" The crying came again, and Waverly died in the Bloodbath a week later. My analysis of the games became almost maniacal in nature, as I realized that I could be reaped next year. That I might not have much time left. My third reaping, I got in line, and fixed my eyes on the crossed fingers of the girl in front of me, replicating her gesture. "Samantha Barings!" Samantha fared no better than Waverly. My fourth reaping, at fifteen years old, I crossed my fingers again and closed my eyes.

"Vivia Seline!"

That is my name.