Satin Gingham {d1} {fin}

I am not a Gingham.

Gingham’s are graceful and gaudy and full of themselves. They play pretend, these china dolls. Not one of them has what it takes to be a killer. They’re too concerned with what people think, with what they can get, whether or not all eyes are on them. Gingham’s are blond and catty, wearing painted smiles that hide barbed wire tongues. They think the world revolves around them. I know different. I know just how fragile a person can be. 

I am not blond. I am dark haired. I am not catty. I am a wolf. I wouldn’t stab you in the back.

I’d stab you in the face.

Or just slide the knife across your pretty neck. Smile for me please? All crimson and wide? I am not tall like my sisters. I’m five foot four. I’m pale, not rosy-cheeked. I was adopted young, like Corduroy, that stupid ox. I guess Damask wasn’t content with screwing up the kids she’d given birth to. I dye my hair often. Odd colors. Just to fuck with her. Got the piercings to fuck with her, and those are just the ones she can see.  I’m going to get a tattoo one of these days and she’s going to flip her shit. Too bad.

I’ve been told that I make people uncomfortable. I know I make my siblings uncomfortable. All except for Suede, but that’s because he’s a sweetheart that doesn’t know any better. Him I like. He tries to make me laugh with shitty puns and slapstick. I don’t laugh. I never do. But I appreciate his attempts to make me. Corduroy’s a big dumb dummy though. He should know better, being adopted like me, but he doesn’t. It’s tiring.

I’ve never gotten along with my sisters. Velvet only cares about Velvet. I cramp Nylon’s style, whatever the fuck that means. Silk thinks I’m either going to murder her in her sleep, or that I’m going to put a curse on her. I’m not, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t considered it. She’s such a bitch. Thinks that some rich Capitolite is going to take her way to a life of ease and splendor. I, on the other hand actually look like I’d fit in there. Not sure why she disapproves. We don’t talk much, if you couldn’t tell. I just—

People, you know what I mean? They can’t leave well enough alone, and they don’t like it when someone doesn’t think the same way that they do. If I was a better person, I’d have the patience for it. But I’m not. Not a good person. I’m me, and no amount of forcing me to be something that I’m not is going to change that. I wouldn't change for my ex, and I'm not going to change for some strangers either. 

The queen bee really has a theme going, doesn’t she? It’d be interesting if I didn’t have to be a part of it. Had to cover all the bases and cut a cookie cutter career clan. The only good thing she ever did for me was teaching me how to properly use a knife. I love them all. Throwing, stabbing, skinning, slicing; honestly, I don’t think any of the other weapons that careers train with are as versatile as the humble knife. She started me young, well, she started all of us young, I guess.

It was—

Different. Growing up in a household where eight—

I’m sorry, seven kids were falling over each other to prove something to mommy dearest. So many rules, so many things to remember. I don’t. Remember them that is. I remember being the last to breakfast. Eating toast and whatever was left of the scrambled eggs. Remember people smarmily saying how good it was that I finally decided to join them at the party instead of staying in my room. I should have. I tried, don’t get me wrong. I tried to fit it. I didn’t. No matter what I did it was never good enough. There was always something I could improve on.

In the Gingham household, a person is punished for success as much as they are punished for failure.

So after a couple years of that shit I decided to embrace it. If I couldn’t fit in, I’d do everything I could to stand out. They avoid me in the training center now. I doubt most of their friends even know that I’m a Gingham. That’s fine. Let them steal the spotlight from each other. Let it swing back and forth like a yo-yo caught in a tornado. I do my best work in the dark. Taking kids lunch money at switchblade point, hitting birds out of the sky mid-flight. I don’t mind smoking cigarettes behind the dumpster with a pal or two.

Before they adopted me my name was Fluorspar Lockwood. It’s still my name, but it used to be too.

I am not a Gingham.

And I don’t want to be.