tea. d3.

I was absolutely - without a shadow of a doubt - born in the wrong district.

What kinda moronic sense of humour does this world have to give a girl from Three a talent for sewing? Useless here, helpful in Eight, everything in the Capitol. Maybe I was a Stylist in another life, or a Eight-er. Doesn't matter here though, you've gotta be good with your head, not your hands, to go anywhere post-reaping. Mom says I damned myself the second I dug up an old sewing machine, I think I damned myself the second I was born. But if I say that aloud she'll thwack me over the head with a magazine, so best zip my lips and go back to my threads and needles.

I know we're not supposed to worship the Capitol otherwise you're some sorta Snow-sympathising traitor who loves watching little kids die, but they've got a good eye for fashion - there, I said it. Call me a sympathiser, whatever, I'll admit I've tried to replicate a skirt or a top from the Tribute Parade every now and then. 

You'd think I wouldn't have any friends falling victim to idolising Capitol Couture, but I've actually got a few. We're a small circle of knock-offs and not-quite-nerdy-enough-nerds. I'm definitely the dumbest grades-wise but I'm the only one that can do a cartwheel, so that's got some street-cred to it. I taught 'em how to make crochet bracelets last year and they all hang on our backpacks, a symbol of the messer-upper-ers and in-between-ers that we are. I wear mine to the reaping wrapped around a skinny little wrist and hope to Ripred we don't get reaped - I'm not much of a religious girl but so far my sporadic, blind faith has spared us all. 

Speaking of religion, my Mom's kinda into it but only when it suits her. She's a half-assed Ripred preacher but god himself help me if I say that aloud in front of her - I'll get chased around the house with a shoe if I'm not careful. Dad just chuckles when she's not looking, shakes his head and smiles behind his hands when she talks about Ripred. She gets really into it around Reaping Day. Swears it's saved me 3 times now, I guess if it helps her sleep at night then it's harmless.

Me? I'm not fussed, much preferring to hunch over my old machine fastening zips or huddle over my sketchbook. Besides, I like cursing. It's cathartic. I don't think Ripred likes cursing, so he probably wouldn't like me much. Still, props to him for letting me slip through my formative teen years - but I know I'm not out of the clear yet. Suppose I better keep the swearing to a minimum for things like needles accidentally stabbed through my fingers or a particularly gruesome death on the television.

It's not refined to be swearing all the time, that's what Mom says. As if we're royalty or something to be important, half the kids at school barely know my first name let alone my last.. I think she worries about me being a little bit too off-centre at times. She worries about a lot of things. Guess that's what parents here do, worry. About death, reapings, Peacekeepers, hunger, who'd wanna be a parent in this country? Not me!

Despite what Mom and Dad say I know I was an accident. I think it's the reason they didn't have any more kids. No matter that time of year it is I catch them looking at me funny, like they're guilty of something. Of making me. Of putting me in this world. They're good parents, arguably a long shot better than most around these parts, but I know I was a selfish mistake. Dad's eyebrows and small chin, Mom's mousy-brown hair and twitchy nose, allergies to eggs from Dad and eczema rashes behind my knees from Mom. You can't deny it by looking at me - I'm their kid. Inside, though, you'd think I'd never met them.

I wonder what's worse in Panem: being a parent of a child or being a child. I'll never know, just me and my friends and my clothes - no time for boys, no time for girls, barely any time for me these days. Bet the kids in other Districts don't have to worry about passing exams and equations and prescription glasses. It got a little easier once the words and numbers got sharper on the page but I still can't do math to save my life. No wonder some kids volunteer. I'd rather fight to the death than have to do math for the rest of my existence.

Okay, so I'll settle for basic times tables - but talk to me about fractions and I might just throw my hand up on reaping day and somersault onto that stage. Try me, I dare ya!