“Mother, why do I have to do this?”
I remember this like it was yesterday, how could I forget, sitting in the parlor room the section of sack stretched over the ring I held in my hands. I had hastily stitched my way through the printed letters A, B and C. Despite the thimble I wore I still managed to poke myself with the needle, and the thimble could not save me from having to redo the stitches. 

I hated embroidering.  

“Kory we have been over this. It's a Quin family tradition. Every woman has to learn this skill… that is just the way it is. Now it is yours and Abigail’s turn.”

I glared down at my crooked letters, “But why doesn't Caleb have to do it?”
“Because…” she sighed in exhaustion “That's… just how it is, alright? Finish up two more letters and you can be done for the day.” 

I immediately returned to my handiwork and swiftly finished my D and E with sloppy crooked stitching. I presented my work to my mother. She held it and sighed, she sighed a lot around me. “Oh Kory, why can’t you be more like your sister?”

Abigail was sitting on the other end of the couch, her posture perfect, no head on her hair was unaligned. She has only stitched A and B, but they were perfect, not one stitch was out of place.

Though she was only a few feet away from me, there was a void between us. Even though she was only a few months older, she seemed so much more accomplished, so much more assured and ladylike. She was my mothers perfect daughter. 

I was lacking in that department. I preferred climbing trees and scraping my knees more than poking my fingers with needles and thread. Abigail collected porcelain dolls that she meticulously placed around her room, but I kept a collection of my own-feathers kept in a wooden box under my bed

The choice for my mothers favorite was a simple one. I was never going to be that choice, I understood that.

Though it bothered me, of course. It was not easy knowing that I was less favored than my other sibling. But I was not willing to give up my happiness to be my mothers perfect daughter. So I ran for the door in search of my brother to see if he would run around with me. 

Abigail never even looked up from her work.

… 

I never did get better at embroidering, my stubbornness wore out my mothers instructions - I could hardly get even the most basic stitches.

But for Abigail it was her entire world. She never showed much interest in other things, not that it mattered, she successfully carried on the Quin family tradition.

Then came my baby sister.

I was fourteen, Abigail was fifteen, and Caleb was 17 when little Julie was born. Suddenly my mothers world was shifted and all that mattered was the baby. 

I did not mind much. Neither did Caleb. We were used to being ignored. But Abigail was not. 

I remember the look on her face, as my mother dismissed her again and again. Abigail watched Mother fawn over the baby. Her eyes were distressed, her lips were tight. I almost hear her thoughts wailing, not good enough, not good enough. 

I did not know how to comfort her. The chasm only grew bigger over time. She did not feel like my sister. It felt uncomfortable to reach out, to ask how she was feeling. So I didn’t. I pretended nothing has changed.

But things did change. And soon they were impossible to ignore.

As Mother continued to consume herself with the baby. Abigail completely threw herself into embroidery. Like she could regain Mother’s favor by creating the perfect piece. Her room was a mess with pillows and blankets and dresses, each more elaborate than the last. Even I could ignore my past resentments and see that she was truly gifted.

Mother never even noticed.

One night I went to tell Abigail that supper was ready, only to see her room in complete disarray. She’d begun embroidering over her own things. Her bedspread, her clothes, even the cloth of the dolls that were once placed with so much care. If she could stick a needle in it, she would embroider it.

…

By the time Julie was one, Abigail had only gotten worse
Mother hardly took notice of her still.

Her room was a mess of thread, Every surface was stitched into oblivion. There was not a scrap left for her to use. 

She had nothing left.

She was sitting out on the porch one morning, listless and vacant. I saw. Her left forearm was a mess of pinpricks, blood oozed out staining the skirt she wore. She scratched at the marks slowly, her fingers stained with blood.

“Abigail” I gasped when I saw her arm. “What is this? What did you do?”

“I’ve been practicing,” She murmured, not bothering to look at me

“I needed the practice,” she stated again as if it was the most natural thing.

A vision popped in my head, of Abigail threading a needle and pushing it through her skin, fastening a stitch over and over and over again as the blood dripped down her arm.

Before I could say anything more she stood up and walked back inside.

That night, Father asked if I had noticed anything strange about Abigail. Even though he was hardly ever home  I was still surprised it had taken him this long to notice something was wrong. I could not look him in the eyes as I shook my head. I did not say one thing.

…

Julie was only eighteen months when she disappeared. 

Mother had woken up one morning to find that she was missing from her crib. She tore apart the house searching for the baby, screaming her name. All of us helped, even Abigail, who had shaken off her stupor enough to realize something terrible must have happened. Within the hour the police arrived to begin a search. They told us to search the house, Just to give us something to do I'm sure.

Father came home that afternoon, escorted by the police. They started a search party, to look in the forest behind our house.

Us children were sent to our rooms. I could hear Mother sobbing downstairs while Father comforted her
I laid on my bed awake for hours, thinking about the police coming back. Saything that they found Julie and everything was okay. 

They never came.

Slowly but surely my fatigue crept up on me. My mind went silent, and I soon fell fast asleep.

…

I woke up in the middle of the night, a pang of hunger in my stomach, I did not eat anything all day. I got up from the warmth of the bed. The house was eerily quiet as I cracked open my bedroom door. I crept into the hallway afraid to break the stillness of the night.

As I walked past Abigail's room, I heard her voice, humming a familiar tune. Curious, I twisted the doorknob. “Abigail?” I barely even whispered. 

She looked up at me and smiled for the first time in years “Hello Kory,” she said

Her face was covered in blood, and so was her nightgown. In fact, it looked like her entire bed was drenched with it. Sitting beside her was her embroidery kit, complete with needle, thread, and scissors. She was holding something in her arms. “Come and see,” she said, completely oblivious to my rising panic as I tried to make sense of what was in front of me.

 I inched my way closer and peered into her arms. It was so bloody that I couldn’t comprehend what I was seeing at first. Then, horror began to dawn on me as I recognized my sister’s perfect little embroidery stitches… Stitched right into someone’s flesh. The little body was covered in satin stitches, pulled tight through the skin. The mouth had been sewn shut – the eyelids, too. “Isn’t she beautiful,” Abigail cooed.

I was speechless, “It's a gift for Mother,” she giggled “Do you think she will like it?” She peered up at me waiting for a response. But I only had eyes for little Julie, or what was left of her.

I ran from her room back to my own, I stood waiting, for something, anything to happen. Soon enough I passed out on my floor.

I was awoken by screams, I wish I’d had the presence of mind to wake my father to tell him what Abigail had done, to save Caleb and my Mother from seeing what had happened. But I didn’t, and they suffered because of it. I  remember the look in my Mothers eyes, clutching Julie’s body to her chest, screaming like some kind of wild beast. 

It's been years since then, yet it still haunts me. The silver glint of this knife glints so beautifully against my blood, that it drains from my body.

I haven’t much time left to live, I'm sure, but I can’t find it in myself to mind. As long as I know that the Quin family tradition dies with me.