woops I accidentally wrote a background fic for the knitter my badâŠ
Rohan lived with his grandmother. She took care of him since his parentsâ death. Really, they took care of each other. And they were happy. Gram taught her young ward many things. Firstly, she taught him the art of knitting.
               âItâs the best pastime one could hope for. Nothing is more calming and pleasing than the feel of cool needles and warm yarn in your hands.â
               Rohan began only wanting to please him grandmother, not to mention the ability to make handmade gifts fairly easily, but he soon grew to love the hobby as much as his guardian did. He would often storm home from school, made upset by something childish that had happened, and soothed his spirits by sitting in front of the warm fire with his knitting. One such day, Gram asked him what had happened.
               âThe people at school teased me. They think Iâm different and called me mean names. They called me a girl! I donât see what the problem with knitting is. Itâs art! Itâs beautiful!â The needles clacked and snapped together, as if echoing his words, seeming to understand and reflect his anger.
               âThey only want to tease you because they want a common enemy. Nothing brings people together like a common enemy. It saves them needing to hate each other if they can band together to hate someone else. Donât worry about being different, my love. Itâs a compliment. It keeps you on a higher plane than them. Theyâll never know your true talent and that is their loss. All you lose is friendship with people who would bring you nothing but heartache. Chin up, love. Itâll get better in time. Some of the most important and beautiful things have happened because someone was different. So be proud. Stand tall. You may just be important one day.â Her words wrapped around him like an oversized sweater, filling him with comfort. From that day on, he was never ashamed to bring his needles or wear the things he made to school. The boy was born with a natural philanthropic quality, and would often donate hand-knit blankets, scarves, and sweaters to charities or school fundraisers. Despite, or perhaps because of, his cunning intelligence, he always somehow managed to find trouble, getting into scrape after scrape. He didnât have many friends and was often picked on by other students, sparking his rebellious attitude and often prompting him to strike back. They soon learned to leave him alone. However, he would always return home to his grandmotherâs accepting arms, and feel better about everything, and she related a proverb. âI know youâre special, Ro. I know you can change the world someday. Those others, theyâll just grow up continuing to seek attention wherever they go. Theyâll never function in this world. But you are different. Even when the whole world seems against you, as long as you remain true to who you are no one can stop you. Youâll be great.â
               Gram took care of him. Gram always took care of him. Later, he began to take care of her, too. When she started getting headaches, he got a job at a craft shop so she wouldnât have to work. When her hearing started to go, he sold scarves at a corner market, and saved up for hearing aids. More things cropped up, but they were never anything they couldnât handle. They were unstoppable. Until he found out that she wasnât. The tumor was malignant. There was nothing the doctors could do, it was too far along. Soon she would lose her sight, her balance, and begin to experience cognitive impairment. He was told to make the best of the next month r two. They were given pills to help the pain and the vomiting. He began to read cleaning columns and did housework, and became skilled at cleaning up sick without leaving a stain or smell. He started selling his knitwork full time so he could quit his job, because he couldnât leave her at home alone anymore. He did everything he could to ensure her safety when he wasnât there. Eventually she went in to the hospital and didnât leave. He had taken up knitting small stuffed animals, to sell to children, called Knittens. He made her a special one just for Gram and it never left her side. She said at one point that it almost felt alive. She never stopped telling him how proud she was. She knew he was capable of living life, going on, keeping up, without her. He knew he wasnât. Several days later, she passed away in the night. She had written him a note and wrapped a small package addressed to him, instructing him not to open it until the time came. He had desperately wanted to open it before, to thank her, to respond to it while he still could. But he respected her wishes. He couldnât not respect her wishes. So now he did. The note was everything you could expect. She told him he could do it. She told him he could probably live off his knitwork. The final thought was, âyou can do anything if you just set your mind to it. Now go and create.â He carefully peeled open the package and reached inside. They were knitting needles. Not just any knitting needles, the most beautiful ones he had seen, along with a big ball of beautiful multicolored yarn. They practically glowed.  On a small slip of paper wrapped around them was written in spidery cursive, âTo Rohan. These have been in my family for generations upon generations. Use them well and theyâll use you well. Now go change the world.â
               Rohan was slipping. It had been several weeks. He couldnât get a job. He couldnât sell anything. Heâd been grieving, and hadnât been able to bring himself to use the needles yet. In a fit of anguish he threw out all his work, along with his well-worn needles, and went to bed, sobbing himself to sleep yet again. It was the third time that week.
               It wasnât until the night before market day he realized what he had done. All his work- gone! He didnât have anything to even try to sell and he was running dangerously low on money. How could he be so stupid! Gram would never have let this happen. He rushed to find his needles and make something, anything, to sell, so he wouldnât have to beg. Stupid stupid stupid! Heâd thrown out his needles! He snatched the needles and yarn Gram had given him out of his desk and began to furiously make at least one small Knitten, as those were the best sellers. As he worked, the needles seemed to take a personality of their own. He let them lead him and watched his fingers work, and the needles catch the light and reflect it in their glossy black surface. Again, they seemed to practically glow. This was the fastest heâd ever done anything in his life. Finally, the Knitten was finished and the needles fell to the floor with a clatter. It was the strangest looking thing he had ever seen in his life. Misshapen, bulgy, limbs all askew. He threw it to the ground and accepted his fate of destitution. He was ruined. This would never sell. Nothing would ever sell again. Then he heard it- a vague growling noise. He looked up. There was nothing. And yet he could still hear it. Finally he felt something tap the back of his leg and turned around. It couldnât be. It was. The Knitten was moving. It was making noises. It was alive. And⊠he was crazy. Destition drove him to insanity. He took it out, struggling with it all the way, to put it in the wastebin near the sidewalk and heard a screech. A bystanding woman pointed to his hand.
               âWhat is that thing? Is it ALIVE?! What is it?!â
Rohan was taken aback and before he could respond, the Knitten snarled and ran toward the woman, climbing up her and biting and scratching and flailing, or trying to, with it toothless mouth and clawless paws.
               âNo, Stop! Donât!â He cried out. The Knitten fell to the ground, sheepishly shuffling back toward Rohan and the woman ran away, sobbing and screaming. Rohan shuffled back into his house. Itâs not fair, he thought as he examined his abomination. Why, why me? Why does everything have to happen to me? Is it because Iâm âdifferent,â like Gram always said? Well, thatâs just dandy. Different people have to eat too. What am I supposed to do, scare people into giving me money and food?
               Realization dawned. He could scare people into giving him money and food. He very seriously could. He had needles and yarn. The creature seemed to obey him and he could always make more. He could do anything. In fact, I could have anything I wanted. I could be rich. I could get rid of the bad people, the mean people, too. After all, Gram said theyâd never function in society. All those years being picked on. Now itâs my turn to do the picking and I pick the going-to-change-the-world option. Iâm going to be important. I can do anything. I can be anyone. I can be great. Iâm unstoppable, Gram, Iâm unstoppable for you! All those people who wanted a common enemy, well theyâve got one now. I was never good enough for them. Well letâs see how they like⊠The Knitter! Â
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