One hundred and ten.

When I think about it, it seems like a colossal number. Too many zeros for my brain to handle. Zeros tumbling over zeros to be at the end until it just keeps going and going and the number never ends. It is infinite.

When I write it down in figures, it doesn't seem so bad. Kind of looks like the front of a train, maybe, although one of the old fashioned ones. Not the fancy things that the Capitol have.

Not the speeding bullets that come to our District every year and condemn two children to death.

I don't regret putting my name forwards for tesserae so many times. I think if I regretted it, I wouldn't have done it in the first place. That's the rule I try to live by. Of course, when you live in one of the Districts and the horror of the Hunger Games looms around your head like an angry storm cloud, risks are sometimes necessary. But I try not to take more than is appropriate.

My family comes first. Well.. my siblings. The way I see it, I take risks, I put their lives in danger. And that's something I'd never want to do. If I were to lose one of them, I don't even know what I'd do. The unthinkable.

I have five, but I pretend I have four. It's just easier now that.. that he's gone. I try not to be spiteful, I try to see things from his point of view, but then I remember the conditions we, a family of seven, live in.

And suddenly I'm not so open-minded anymore.

My brothers and sister, though, they're the absolute world to me. There's my little princess, Alice, followed by the next oldest, Noah. They're safe. They're too young to know what it's like to wake up, on Reaping Day, and feel like your body could just give in at any moment. My body never has, however.

Because they keep me going.

It's Carson's first year, today. It's funny, how cheerful we all were on his birthday, celebrating the fact that he'd reached twelve. That there was now the possibility he could die. No-one said anything, but we all knew. It was impossible not to. Nothing, however, prepares you for the first time dread you feel when you wake up on your first Reaping Day.

I look over at him. He's still sleeping, soundly, with no signs of any nightmares plaguing his dreams. I thank my lucky stars there'll be no screaming, no crying, no panicking when he wakes up. Carson has a good set of lungs on him, and I know for a fact that when he starts, he doesn't stop. It'd probably take me the time I'm supposed to use to get ready to soothe him back to his usual calm, collected self.

My eyes flicker over to the body curled up in the blankets next to him, and I'm not surprised in the slightest to see a pair of bright blue eyes staring back at me.

Dallas doesn't sleep on Reaping Day.

He's fourteen now, survived two years, and I'm determined to keep it that way until he's in the clear. By taking on the tesserae in place of them both, in place of all my family, they have the minimum amount of slips in that goldfish bowl. Their chances are slim, very slim, and I can only hope that luck is on my side. That they'll make it, that they'll reach the age of eighteen and still never have to compete in the treacherous games. The same goes for the other two. But there's only so much luck one person can have.

By now, I can't be too sure, but I guess I've been lying here for a little less than forty five minutes. The sunlight streaming in through the window is enough to indicate to me it's still early in the morning, the sun is still rising, and I still have a few hours to spare before we're all herded like cattle into the town centre. I suppose lying motionless isn't healthy for the nerves building in my stomach, so eventually, I manage to slide anything less than gracefully out of bed.

I get dressed in a matter of moments. I don't wear my Reaping clothes, not just yet. If I get those dirty, my mother will kill me, and well, I don't particularly need that. Not today. So, silent as a shadow, I slip out of our cabin, knowing for certain that Dallas' anxious gaze is following me as I go.

Going about my usual business of chopping trees for timber keeps me busy for about an hour before I am called back inside again. Judging by the colour of the sun, the temperature of the air, I can tell it's getting closer. I give myself two hours at the most, and then promptly decide it's best not to think about it. So I busy myself with getting both myself and my siblings washed and dressed.

Heading back inside our cabin, I'm greeted by a low murmur of voices, like the buzz of a bee. Everyone's awake, as expected, and with nothing more than a polite nod I set the logs I collected in the wicker basket, close to where my parents are sitting. They don't acknowledge me.

They never do.

"Blainey!"

Turning my head, a soft smile breaks out across my lips as I drop to my knees, scooping the very girl that emitted the squeal of my name up into the safety of my arms.

"B-Blainey, that tickles!"

Her giggles are infectious, and I can't help but chuckle softly at how happy she is, how innocent. I wish I could say the same for the rest of the children in District Seven, but sadly, this isn't the case. With a gentle kiss to her forehead, I set her back down.

"Come on, princess. Let's make you all nice and pretty," I say, running my fingers through her hair affectionately as she wriggles away, like a worm, her smile still warm and bright as she looks up at me.

Her eyes are full of so much promise, so much trust, and it breaks my heart to know that she doesn't suspect a single thing. She doesn't know why we go to the town centre once a year, and she doesn't know where the two children chosen disappear off to. In time, she will. But I like to think I can allow her to savour her innocence while it's still there.

Alice fetches me the bath, with the help of her older brothers, and in no time at all we're settling back into the routine of washing ourselves, our bodies, our hair. In many ways, we're like dogs. We prepare ourselves, we make ourselves look as beautiful or as handsome as we possibly can, and then we're put out there in the town centre for show. Some are stronger than others, some clean up better. Whatever happens, we are not people.

We are the Capitol's playthings.

When it finally rolls round to my turn to wash (I make sure the others go first, so they have time to get dressed), I find myself taking a little longer than usual. I usually tend to get on with it, as I don't particularly care for my own appearance so long as my siblings are happy. But with each scrub, each pour of water, each water droplet trickling down my skin, I wish. I wish that maybe, just maybe, I can wash my worries away along with the dirt.

After patting myself dry and chasing Alice round with the towel, to make sure she is, too, it's time to get dressed. Dallas doesn't seem to want any help - he's independant, always has been. He accepts help when it's offered, but for the most part, he knows that I have to look after the younger ones before I tend to his own needs. He understands this. It's kind of an unspoken agreement we have - that, and the fact that if I get chosen, he will take on the role of being in charge. It's a lot to ask of a fourteen year old, but his maturity far surpasses his age.

I get myself dressed in my Reaping clothes in a matter of minutes, before I have to deal with the task of clothing both Noah and Alice. Alice seems happy enough to oblige - she holds out her dress towards me with the brightest smile I've ever seen - but Noah is too distracted with a ladybird to care about such idle things as outfits.

"D, would you mind helping Noah, please?" I ask, shooting him a grateful smile as he nods, going over to grab his younger brother's attention.

"Blaine.."

I look up at the sound of a quiet voice, gently buttoning up Alice's dress before pressing a kiss to her forehead, softly telling her she's done. With a smile, she hops away, though Carson remains by my side, his Reaping clothes in hand. He's shaking, though from the way his grip is so tight on his shirt, I can tell he's trying to stop it.

With gentle fingers, I take the clothes from him, carefully laying them out on the bed as I look up at him. He's pale, nervous, and his eyes never linger on one spot for long. Carson's having trouble holding my gaze, so with a soft smile, I hook my fingertips under his chin.

"Carson, look at me," I instruct, my voice soothing as I tilt his head a little further so our eyes meet, "it's okay to be scared.. you don't have to hide it."

He bites his bottom lip, and I watch as his throat ripples as he swallows. We stay there in silence for a few moments, before he's moving forward and curling up in my lap, his grip incredibly tight around my body as he buries his head in my chest.

"Hey, hey.. shh.. I've got you," I whisper, softly, wrapping my arms around him as I hold him close. One of my hands finds its way up Carson's back, my fingers starting to run soothingly through his hair as I begin a slow rock, hoping to calm him back down.

He's silent. I know that if I look down, his eyes will be clamped shut, and his expression unreadable. When he's upset, he doesn't like to talk. He hides. He stays quiet and hopes that my attempts will be enough to soothe him, and honestly, I can only hope for the same thing.

"Don't worry, Carson.. don't worry.. one slip.. that's all you've got."

I don't say it, and neither does he, but it's both in our heads.

When it comes down to the Reaping, even one slip could mean the difference between life and death.

"You don't even feel it, C.. I swear. Just a prick."

I can hear Dallas explaining the process of signing in in front of me as we walk, my hazel gaze keeping a close eye on them. I know for a fact Carson doesn't particularly mind needles, or blood, or anything like that, but it's his first Reaping. This whole thing is new to him, and he'll be scared. I can almost see his heart thumping in his chest as we slowly walk towards the row of Peacekeepers.

"You two wait for me once you've been registered, okay? I don't want to lose you," I say, firmly, yet keeping my tone as soft as possible. I don't like ordering them around in the slightest, but when it comes down to this, I'd rather be bossy than lose sight of my brothers.

We register, separately, myself finishing first. I wait for them both not too far away, so they can see me, and together we walk towards the group of males settling in the town centre. We wait for what seems like eternity in deafening silence before everyone's finally gathered in the centre. I keep both Dallas and Carson close to my body, holding tight to both of their hands. I may only be a few years older than them, but I am their older brother. I'm the one that sets the example, that keeps them calm. I'm the one that must remain relaxed for their own sake. It's a lot harder when the anticipation of waiting won't stop gnawing away at my stomach, so I'm glad for the fact the mayor of District Seven soon appears.

He gives the usual speech about the history of Panem, before moving on to the Treaty of Treason. I'm almost positive I zone out, since this is the fifth time I've heard it. Instead I focus on keeping my heart out of my throat and actually in my chest, and trying not to open my mouth in fear of something unpleasant coming out. The victor's list is short and sweet: Blight, Cooper Anderson, and Johanna Mason.

Almost instantly once the mayor's finished reading their names, the victors appear on stage. I see him. I see him as clear as day.

And he sees me.

It never fails to amaze me, just how quickly Cooper can find me in the crowd, in the mass of boys. I have nothing that particularly makes me stand out from the others, so I have no idea how he does it. But what I do know is that I don't want to look back, so I turn my gaze to something more interesting, like the younger brother on my right.

One that actually managed to stand by when I needed him.

Now isn't the time for grudges, Blaine. I tell myself, sharply, shaking my head a little to rattle away all negative thoughts about any certain brothers I may or may not wish to write a very strongly worded letter to. Right now I have bigger fish to fry, like making sure I help my brothers through this, and actually paying attention, now that our District's escort has trotted out on stage.

Bryn Valentina. That's her name. I haven't met a lot of people from the Capitol, so I don't know if all of them have such unique names as that, but I can only suspect the answer is yes. Simply from the way she dresses, the way she styles herself, I can tell this. Her hair is a deep, fire red this year, and her clothes match. From where I'm standing, she looks like a walking flame, although her shrill voice soon cuts through that effect.

"Welcome, welcome! Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favour!"

Her cheerful welcome is greeted by silence, as per usual, as we all wait with bated breath for her to start rambling on about how District Seven is so incredibly important to the Capitol.

She doesn't fail to meet our expectations.

It goes on for about an hour or so, I think, I'm not too sure. I don't know how or why lumber is so important to them, but I suppose they need something to make their furniture. To be honest, I know next to nothing about the Capitol, and listening to Bryn going on and on about my own District is old news. I think she either has a script or very little to say, because I'm almost positive this is what she said last year.

"Now, the time has come for us to choose two daring tributes to compete in the seventy fourth annual Hunger Games."

I bite my lip. This is it, it's about to happen. The moment all three of us, no, the whole town centre has been waiting for for probably weeks on end.

"Ladies first."

She turns, sharply, strutting herself over to the large bowl on her left. Bryn dips her hand inside, tantalisingly wafting her fingers over the small slips of paper, before diving. Her claws come up victorious, and she returns to the podium to declare the fate of one young lady.

"Melyssa St. James."

Her voice rings out across the centre, and I realise with a jolt that her name is familiar. It's typical. I know next to no-one in my District, and one of the few that I do has been chosen to participate in the Hunger Games. I almost feel guilty for bringing this upon her, but I force myself to believe otherwise. This isn't my fault. This is the Capitol's, for bringing such a game upon us in the first place. I watch as she takes to the stage, and I have to give her credit for remaining so calm. However, I know she also has a few brothers of her own - maybe she's keeping her expression unreadable for them? I know for a fact that if I wa- well.. if I am chosen, I won't want any of my siblings to know the true emotions inside. I have to remain strong for them, no matter what.

I have little time to think before Bryn's strolling over to the boys' bowl, my breath hitching uncomfortably as I watch her hand disappear inside, fishing around so incredibly casually. I give both Dallas and Carson's hand a reassuring squeeze, shutting my eyes tight and waiting. I wait for my own name to echo across the silent courtyard.

"JonCristper St. James."

It never comes. Another boy's name is called out, one who shares Lyssa's surname, and.. and oh no..

I watch, the entire town centre watches as a twelve year old steps out from between the male huddle. He looks so small compared to everyone else, so naive. So unprepared. Glancing around at the crowd quickly, I see the pain across everyone's features, the severity of the situation reflected in their own eyes. It's completely awful when a twelve year old is chosen, because everyone knows they're not ready. They're too young to be sent to fight to the death.

He's walking slow to the front, and hell, I can't blame him. This is probably the last time he'll see us all, see his District, his siblings, his parents. Speaking of which, I quickly scan the crowd, and there they are. JC and Lyssa's parents. The pain and agony radiating off them is obvious, and I can barely stand to watch. Two of their children have been entered in the games - at most, one of them survive, though knowing their odds, probably neither of them will be coming back. Looking back to Lyssa, I notice instantly how cloudy her eyes are. Cloudy with the unmistakeable glint of pain, of horror, and I can't take it.

I just can't take it.

Abruptly letting go of my younger brothers' hands, I push my way through the crowd, through the mass of people until I can stand rigid in between both huddles.

"I volunteer!" I yell, my voice loud as I try to stop it from shaking. I take a deep breath to steady it, and then I try again, "I volunteer as tribute."

Everyone around me is gasping, turning their heads and trying to make sense of the situation. The whole town probably thinks I'm suicidal, volunteering when I have no relation to either of the tributes whatsoever. They have no idea what I'm doing.

I don't think even I know what I'm doing.

But then it hits me, hard, and I realise. I see myself in Lyssa's shoes - already devastated about the fact I've been chosen as tribute, but I battle on. I battle on for my siblings, because I am their role model and I must be strong. But then, then my younger brother is called out, and I can hardly believe it. I'm more upset about that then I am about my own name being read off a slip, and I don't know what to do. I beg, I'm begging, I'm pleading for someone to volunteer, anyone..

And then it hits me, harder, and I realise.

I am now a tribute in the seventy fourth Hunger Games.

I am going to die.