What does it take to kill? Is it human nature? Or is there a dormant part of the brain – A part that domestication has long hidden – that awakens when under stress? One thing the games have taught me is that everyone is capable of it.

I've seen those on the screen who cried and whined that they'd be unable to do such an act but weeks later be driving a blade through the chest of another. It could have been an act; tributes have been known to underplay themselves in order to be overlooked and underestimated in the arena. I doubt 12-year-olds have been so strategic yet have seen a handful resort to brutality when the time arose.

Amber Rose comes to mind, a girl from District 11, she was twelve. Innocent and meager. She killed two people. Not so innocent, I guess. Of course, she did not win, no one under fourteen has ever won the games.

The thought then comes to my mind, how brutal would I go to win? Would I kill only when necessary? Or would I be one of those tributes who begins to actively hunt others down?

My brother wasn't that way. He got reaped six years ago. He was promising to the district. Tall, strong, attractive, he was charismatic and was able to ring in a number of sponsors. But when the time came to kill. When he was pinned down in a cave with two tributes nearing…He hesitated. He couldn't bring himself to kill. The domestic part of his brain did not activate. His human nature did not kick in. And in that hesitation, his throat was slit.

I was eleven when I was forced to sit in our living room, watching my brother convulse on the cave floor as blood oozed from his body. They did not miss a single gory second. I watched the male and female tributes from District 5 celebrate his death. Raid his body and toss the bracelet – the bracelet my sister had made him – the bracelet he had brought in as his token, get tossed off a cliff.

Mom hasn't recovered since. I remember a home that smelt of herbs and roasted apples. A constant fire in the kitchen that kept the house warm. She had even gone to the lengths of using tree sap on bits of wood to trap spiders from creeping in our home.

The house is cold now. Even in the summer there seems to be a chill in the air. The smell of dirt and rotten food lingers through the air. Bugs float around from countertop to table.

Mom, once beautiful. Long flowing golden curls, plump cheeks, a smile that lit up a room. Morphling has changed that. Her features are more angular, her ashen skinned stretched tight over her bones. Teeth that have begun to rot, she has pulled a few of them out herself. Most of the time she lays on the couch on her room, groaning. In a trance like state. Pumping more drugs into her veins.

How many times has she tried to quit? Four? She would lay in her bed, sweating she was so hot but swore she was freezing cold. Crying as she scratched at her stomach, telling me how her organs were moving around inside her. I'd have to tie her arms to the legs of the bed to stop her from trying to scratch herself open. She'd cry and cry like a wounded animal. Vomiting up clear liquid cause she refused to eat in that state.

"This is it," she'd say, "I am never going through that again. I'm never touching morphling again."

But how long does that last? Eventually she would come stumbling in, drool spilling between her lips, so high she could hardly keep her footing.

I've stopped pleading for her to quit.

Even today, on Reaping Day, a day that took away my brother – her son – and could take my sister or I. She still remains in her trance like state.

I begin to understand why my older brother, Caliper, has moved out when he turned eighteen. As soon as he survived his final reaping, Caliper packed up what little he had and moved in with his girlfriend. They got a small shack on the outskirts. I had been there twice to visit, and it is actually quite nice. A large field of flowers stretches behind their home providing a nice view.

He doesn't visit much anymore or allow visits. I feel it is because of his desire to disconnect from the addict lifestyle. First Mom and then my sister, Fascia. She had begun to use morphling a few years ago. I've still yet to inject myself but Caliper doesn't seem to want to chance it.

"I'm busy," he always says.

It hurts. We were close years ago. But at the same time, I understand. Next year, when I turn 18 and survive my final Reaping, I plan to move out. I plan to distance myself from the drugs as much as I can.

I guess that is why I enjoy work more than most. It gives me a break from the dreary house, inhabitant by two shells who used to be my mother and sister, starving in my bed that is hard and uncomfortable. Least work gives me something to do.

I'd rather be getting ready for work now rather than the Reaping. For the Reaping, we are urged to look our best. There is no law and I'm sure the gamemakers don't really care what we dress ourselves in, but it helps. Sponsors will be watching, and they will want to see someone who looks good, someone they are attracted to.

Who is attracted to someone in worn down clothes with greasy hair? No one.

So I do what is needed to look Capitol ready. I bath the engine grease and brake dust from my body. Within seconds the cool water I lay in is nearly black, decorated with bits that float in the murky liquid. It'd be nice to change the water before washing my hair but that would require me to go back and forth from the stream a few times – Seeing as our water stopped working nearly two years ago. So instead I dunk my head into the water and spread soap between my dark hair. I even take the time to trim the hair that grows along my jawline.

I dress in the best clothes I own. A pair of grey pants with a white shirt. They were Caliper's, I actually believe he wore them on his last reaping.

"I don't want to ever see these clothes again," he said when he came back home. They had been his reaping clothes when he was seventeen and eighteen.

Now I have taken them up. My official reaping clothes. Stowed away in the closet for eleven months out of the year so they don't get any holes or look used.

Be a shame to have clothes look like they've been worn…Not like that's what they are for.

"Hey, Honey," Mom groans from the kitchen table as I walk out.

"Hey, Mom," I say.

She lifts her head from her hands, her glazed eyes looking over me for a few seconds.

"You look nice," she says.

"Thanks," I say, "have to look my best for Reaping."

She doesn't respond. Instead she fiddles with twine. Weaving the strands into loops and knots, forming a blanket. A poorly made blanket, there are large gaps in the material but she is doing her best.

"Nice blanket," I say.

"Thanks," she mumbles.

"Where's Fascia?" I ask.

"Gone," Mom says.

"to the Reaping already?"

"Yea."

I know she is taking a side trip to get a small dose of morphling in her before the Reaping begins. Just enough to keep her calm and numb through the event without making her unable to function.

That's why the camera usually avoids the shots of the crowd during the Reaping. Most of the teenagers in the district are addicts of something. No Capitol citizen wants to see a horde of pale emaciated kids who look dead in the eyes. They usually focus on a handful of live looking ones.

Still, it is good to head out early. The trains that are used as transport throughout District 6 can get overly crowded closer to the time we are expected to be in the square. So, I don't bother with breakfast. There isn't much food anyways.

I can grab some stew from one of the merchants after the Reaping.

I turn to see Mom has passed out. She remains seated on the chair with her head tilted downward, drool soaking into the blanket she was so focused on minutes ago.

I'll bring her some stew as well, see if I can coax her to eat something other than bread.

"Love you, Mom," I say before walking out of the house.