Stitch Gabel ~ District 8 ~ fin

I never got along with my family, but that was something I would soon get over.  My mother pushed me into becoming a seamster with her, because she didn’t want me sitting at home doing nothing.  My father hasn’t been around in ages.  Something about another woman.  Oh well, I didn’t need him in my life anyway.  All I needed was my mother, and the textiles that we worked on together.

You see, we were one of the more well-known families of the district.  My mother worked ragged to make sure that we were better off then most of the district because she didn’t want me or my brother to struggle.  She wanted us to be well off, well fed, and most importantly, well taken care off.  We didn’t have dad to rely on, and we didn’t have anything or anyone for that matter to look after us.  We had each other, and that was all we needed.

However, I never knew how to tell my mom that I hated being a seamester.  I hated hemming clothes for people who acted like they were better than us.  I hated telling people that they needed to get new clothes because the fabric was literally shredding at the seams.  I hated having to tell someone that they couldn’t afford our services because my mother was stingy for money.  My mother was picky, I was not. That was the main difference between us.

And then she met her new husband, who I never thought would end up being our father.  That was probably my first mistake.  I thought.  He was nice, but he was just like her, desperate.  Desperate to make our lives better.  Desperate for someone to tell him that he was good enough.  Desperate to tell him that this family needed him.  We didn’t.  We didn’t need him, because we took care of each other.  Someone coming into that, well, that wasn’t going to work.  It was like trying to put a dress on a pig, no matter how close you stitch it,

It

Never

Quite

Fit.

I felt like that a lot in the district.  I was very aware of the person that I was.  I liked people that looked like me, thought like me, acted like me, that were the same gender as me.  I liked girls too, but not in the classic sense of liking a girl.  There would be no kids for me, and I was fine with that.  I didn’t want them.  I would never want them.  Kids were burdens, and I couldn’t imagine what my mother might go through if one of us were to get reaped.  She would try to figure out something I am sure.  But, she wouldn’t be able to do anything, just watch in horror as her child has to fight his way out. 

She had a reason for calling me Stitch.  I don’t remember the full story, but it had to do with how small I was born.  How it looked like I could fit through a stitch of a blanket that she had sewed for me before I came out of her.  She told me that she hoped I would make it to see my first birthday, but she could have found solace in my death, seeing as she didn’t want me to have to grow up through the games.   She always had that fear in her head, that I was going to die, one way or the other. 

When she told me this, my view of my mother changed, and I knew, just knew, that I didn’t want to be close to her.  She didn’t care about me the way she cared about my brother Hem anyway.  While she took care of me, she always took care of him a little more.  He would always get a little extra something, no matter what it was.  And while I grew independent from her, the fact that she didn’t love me the same way, hurt.  Like being stabbed with a knife a thousand times.

They wanted me to help design things that my district mates would wear when they were reaped.  I told them no.  I didn’t want to perpetuate anything that games had to offer.  District 8 had very few victors and I worried that we might never have another victor.  When they sent some of my stuff to the capitol, it sold, but not enough to reap a giant reward.  There were days were I had to take my mother’s help.  While textiles didn’t sell too well from 8, there was always something about my mother’s work that seemed to charm people.  While I felt, she didn’t have a soul, she did, it only showed in her clothes though.  I however, didn’t have a soul.  I didn’t care what happened to me anymore.  I still don’t care.  I cant.  I cant afford to care.

I was a torn piece of silk, that needed careful stitching, or to be burned at the stake.