They say that on the day I was born my mother cried a river of tears. Thinking back on it now, I feel as thought that is highly unlikely. I mean, the human body doesn't really have that much water in it, right? I don't believe it was fair of the doctors to create such an exaggerated tale, for me, I wanted to know what truly happened the day I was born. After all it was a day to be remembered, I wanted the accurate details, not the ones filled with lies. What was I supposed to tell my children? They wouldn't believe such nonsense.
(Future children ,what a joke, I still had to find myself a wife, but in saying that as well my mum wants me to get married and have children, you know the entire
"I want grandchildren before I die, Pauly"
"Soon, mummy, soon"
"When are you bringing your girl home"
What girl? "She's shy")?
At first, the nurses thought nothing of those tears, knowing, fully well that most mother’s cried with joy at the sight of their new born baby, bundled in blankets of blue and pink, presented to them without blood on them. Because really, what sane Capitolite would even dare touch a child with blood on it? They were delighted to see that they had created life and that the little baby that they held was all theirs, they had made that, my mum and dad had made me, how could they have not been delighted? It turns out my mum wasn't entirely to pleased with the results of those nine months. She hadn't performed well enough, she would tell me; she could have made a better piece of artwork with less flaws and less failing charm.
I strongly disagree with the very thought that I am below standard, I was raised in a place where the most hideous things were sculpted and placed on a pedestal and told they are fashion. You see how I can think that my ordinary appearance is just as charming? Unlike most Capitolites I chose not to decorate myself with intricate tattoos and funny hair colours. Instead I opted to sweep my dark hair over my receding hairline. I chose a pair of large glasses, and my broad nose did not buckle under their weight. The clothes I choose to adorn or somewhat older fashioned, back when the eccentrics and punks and emos didn't rule the streets. I'm far more tamed then what they are in a loose fitting jacket that does well to cover my somewhat protruding belly. (One chubby bubby, two chubby bubby's, three chubby bubby's, four and five and six, and look, ooops the bellies spilling over the edge of my pants).
Mummy is a beauty, she's so pretty. I still don’t think that it’s untrue. Dad used to say that she was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. She had the kind of looks that made him want to stop, stand still and catch his breath. I don’t think that mum is that pretty, but dad says I’ll meet someone like that one day. But I’ve never entirely felt anything towards other people, I can say they look nice, but I’ve never had my breath catch in my throat, or had my heart beat rapidly (I mean my heart always seems to have some abnormal rhythm too it, but I’m pretty sure that’s just the cholesterol talking, goddammit why is butter so good). Dad says she's lost some of her touch "it fades with age" he'd say, "like a rose, when they bloom they're glorious, when they die they decay, your mother is like that".
- - -
”You’re going to be a gamemaker?” There was a subtle shift in her tone, as it rose, reaching octaves that made your ears ache. Mum never reacted well to good news, she always felt as though it was simply bad, presumably because she wasn’t the centre of attention. ”Yes, I’m going to be running games, and helping run games and such. You know, the dream that most-“
”When will you ever get married!” She stepped forwards, before swaying and collapsing dramatically into the chair by her side. I’ve become ever accustomed to these displays and yet somehow they always leave a painful twinge in my heart. Silly, right? My clenched hands tighten around one another as I rub them together, suddenly apprehensive. ”About th-“
”I’m never going to be a grandma, I’ll grow old and die before long!” It seemed that most people would have the simple response of rolling their eyes and being done with it. But mum had a way of making me sink into her atmosphere. Standing up I draw myself to my full height, which isn't a terrible amount, before putting my hands on my curvy hips. "Listen here, weiner weeny face, I am going to be a Gamemaker, I will be killing little children and I will not be giving you any!" I yelled.
"Oh my, Pauly-"
"I'm" there's spit
"not" a step closer
"having" hands in the air
"a" for all
"baby." those single guys.
I'm a man for Ripred's sake. I don't have the equipment."
Sometimes I like to say things in the hopes that by the end of the sentence I'll have reached some point of finalisation and it will all make sense. But generally, 11 out of 10 times I end up just confusing myself more, or those that I am often yelling at. Spinning I left that room, mum's screams a beautiful tune as I walked away.
Paul Smith, the Gamemaker. Yeah, it had a nice ring to it.