Twice the tribute, Twice the bloodshed

Chapter 1

Author's note: This is my very first fanfic ever, so go easy on me! I absolutely LOVE the Hunger Games and the idea for this came to me whilst reading another (admittedly rather boring) fanfic, and I thought I'd give it a go :)

If you think it's crap, I honestly won't mind. Just write me a review telling me what's wrong, and I'll see if I can fix it :) Any ideas you may have for future events based on the basic details given here would be very much appreaciated too! Thanks! :3

*Traena's Point Of View*

Reaping Day in the country of Panem. A day of relief for most, but for two families in each district, the beginning of living hell. I was unlucky really; living in the smallest district in the whole of Panem meant that my chances of being reaped were larger than most. Larger than most, but not likely still. At least I hadn't had to apply for tesserae, my family managed to get by without the grain and oil by selling the manure produced by the cows. I knew that if I ever was reaped, I would never survive. I know what you're thinking, everyone has a chance, everyone has a defining skill. But I don't. You see, I'm a conjoined twin. My brother, Tarqua and I have been literally joined at the hip since birth. That means two sets of arms and legs, two hearts, two sets of lungs, but only three hips between us, the middle hip being a strange sort of double-socket. I know what you're thinking. 'Ew, that's the most disgusting thing I've ever heard'. I know, I've heard it all before, from pretty much every person I've ever met since we were born. I even catch our own mother looking at us sometimes, her deep sea green eyes plundering the depths of how she could have possibly produced such a monstrosity. People don't ever seem to consider the fact that it's hard for me too, and not just the mobility issues. What with me being a girl and my twin being a boy, puberty's been an interesting struggle. Somehow, even though we're similar in looks, he gets so much more attention from the opposite sex. The deep, husky grey eyes that seemed to illuminate his face only made mine look washed out and pale, his silvery blonde hair cut into short bristles accentuates the beautiful structure of his jaw, whereas my long sheet of pale gold hair hangs limply at my sides. It had always been this way; him getting all the attention for being the smartest, the strongest, the most caring of us. People in the District would often give him pieces of leftover meat or bruised fruit if he were passing, but never to me. I live my life as the forgotten twin; the accident. Suddenly, I was sick of this. Sick of lying here on a shabby old straw mattress, trying not to wake my brother. I trashed out with my left leg, freeing it from the bedclothes it had become entwined in.

'Traenaaaaaa' he moaned as he slowly gained consciousness.

'Get up. We'll be needed to milk the cows soon.' I replied harshly, though I knew I was being unfair, as it had been my own foul thoughts that had put me in this mood, nothing he could have helped.

Milking cows. The most dull, monotone job in the whole of District 10. It was the only job we could do though. We couldn't lift hay, as lifting was awkward and difficult due to both of us having the arm on the side closest to each other being weak and barely functional enough to lift a water jug, let alone lug heavy bales of hay. We couldn't herd animals as we couldn't run fast enough to be able to catch any escapees. So we were subjected to milking cows, where all we get to do all day is stare at a cow's back end. Nose plugs needed for amateurs. It's also the only job that still has to be done on Reaping Day. Cows don't care about the reaping, all they know is if they aren't milked, they aren't going to be happy.

As we stood in the Town Square, awaiting the choosing of the names, the usual ominous feeling passed in the air between the people, packed tightly into the small space. A familiar 'clack stomp clack stomp' could be heard as District 10's announcer mounted the small stage that had been hastily erected in the middle of the square. Darrel Krump never seemed to realise that the boots he wore to every reaping had had a metal drawing pin stuck in the toe ever since I could remember.

'Let's get this over with, shall we?' he said gruffly, his voice barely audible despite the complicated system of microphones that had been rigged all over town, so that no matter where you were, you could not escape the games.

'The female tribute for the 47th annual Hunger Games' he mumbled, his voice snagging on the last syllable, 'is Martola Eschowitz'

A faint cry escaped from the collective mouth of the crowd, as it always did when a twelve year old was selected. This was followed by the usual denial, weeping, and then silent rage felt by the family of the selected tribute.

'And the male tribute' a pause as he fumbled with the slip of paper, seeming to disbelieve the words written on its grubby surface 'T-T-Tarqua Serfman' he gulped.

And before I knew what was happening, me and my brother were being hurled onto the stage, the lights blinding me, cutting off the last view I would ever have of the people I cared for.