Conveyor Belt of Life [Kendall]
Jul 9, 2015 5:32:57 GMT -5
Post by d6a georgie cham 🍓🐢 frankel on Jul 9, 2015 5:32:57 GMT -5
Chenille Angora
Pulling the thread in and out of the material, I have completed the fifty sixth panty seams, just fourty four more to go. Panties for the Capitol to wear, with a collection of colours and patterns and a hint of my own blood and sweat in them. I wonder how a woman can wear them with great big silver sequins dotted all over them, I am sure that is not comfy? But I can’t question it, if the Capitol wants it, I make it. I am sure they must think about those poor District Eight workers, who strung together the underwear they wear every day, all the craftsmanship which went into them. I am sure not.
Golden glittery thread, keeping together the top of the underwear, one piece out of match and the whole thing would fall to bits. I bet that would be embarrassing for them at one of their fancy parties.
Threading the needle, I’d begin the weave the golden string in and out of the underwear. Steadily my hand would knot the thread at the end, another one done. My life is like a conveyor belt, another thing after the other. Usually it is always the same but somewhere along the line there is a fault.
My hatred for men is my own fault, not one easily fixed either. A testosterone filled man, their only desire is to put us women in their bed. Abuse us, use us for their own desires, there is no love behind it. Even if they don’t want us in their bed, the use us to work, like here. Thirty Five women are piled into this cramped room and the person at the forefront? A man. A bossy ignorant, prick of a man.
Just because we may look weaker than men, doesn’t mean we’ve to treat like pansies. Women easily do the manly jobs, on occasion even better than the man. We’re treated like ovens; they put their meat in and expect a roast to come out nine months later.
Glancing around the room, the faces of the women working are bright red. Despite the torrential rain outside, the air in this room is stuffy. No wonder with all those lunges breathing in the air. A woman last week collapsed from the heat, I haven’t seen her since.
Looking back down at my workspace, before the prick would notice my sudden break, I’d go back to work. Beginning to thread the needle again.
My boss an arrogant, immoral horrible man. He treats us like animals. Standing in his office, watching above at us, sitting on his arse all day, I am sure he has never properly worked a day in his life. Fat as well, how can someone in District Eight become fat? I wish I could roll him down those stairs from the office one day, like a great big boulder. shit Having being lost in my rant about my boss, I’ve stupidly stabbed the needle into my finger. Slicing off the skin on the top of my index finger, blood begins to pour out of the wound.
Pushing myself off the table, I’d seek out a bandage. Looking up to the glass window where the prick is seated, I’d have to go up those stairs to him, great. Strolling up the stairs, I’d swing open the door. The great loaf would be sat on his oak chair, his legs planted onto his desk.
”What are you doing, go back to work?” He’d ask, while pulling his legs off the table.
”I’ve cut my finger, I need a bandage or something…” Raising my finger in the air, the blood trickling past my wrist.
Pulling a face, the man would chuckle. ”It is but a scratch kid.Go back to work!
How am I meant to work when I have blood running all over?
”I can’t the blood will get all over the material and it might get infected.”
Grabbing my arm, the man would push me to the door, his great weight causing me to fall onto the ground.
”You’re no use to me infected!” Yelling down at me, a thought of my foot flying into his crouch entered my mind but I can’t, I’ll lose my job. Although I am likely to lose it, if I don’t clean up this wound.
kendall | 713 Words
