𝑰𝑵𝑲 • 𝑻𝒆𝒘𝒌𝒆𝒔𝒃𝒖𝒓𝒚 / 𝑳𝒐𝒖𝒊𝒔 𝑷𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒓𝒊𝒅𝒈𝒆

A Dreadful Thought

My fingers would surely set alight

They'd burst into bright flames,

If they ever had the pleasure of

Tracing your delicate frame

—————

I was sat in the kitchen, atop a three-legged wooden stool which had one shorter leg. The early morning grey skies brightened up the room from behind me, casting light onto my breakfast. I'd been sharing a piece of bread that was nearly gone off with my mother. The bread was near rock solid, but that wasn't what made my stomach churn.

She was sat across from me on a significantly more balanced stool, taking a sip of water from a metal cup. It had been a while since she started talking to me again, small things at first, before everything seemed to return to normal. We hadn't talked it out or had this great big heart to heart, it had just sort of dissolved on its own.

I wasn't going to complain. I much preferred it when she wasn't upset with me.

T had gone into town that day, some business matter or other. He hadn't told me exactly what, but then again, I hadn't really asked. In his absence I was assured that the day would be uneventful, and most likely spent mindlessly completing chores on the estate.

Mum had seemed to have completely forgotten about Jon, not having mentioned his name to me in well over a month. He had near vanished from my life, and I found myself thinking about his new wife more than I did him. Sometimes I'd see her in my dreams, walking into the shop.

Only, her face was my own, and so was her hair and her voice. And it was actually me, and I was the one he'd married and gotten pregnant. I never slept well on those nights. I'd find myself rereading some of the poems from the book T had given me in an attempt to fall back asleep. Not because they were boring, no; they just never failed to calm me down.

I think mum's reasons for forgiving me were slightly off. She was more concerned with moving on and moving forward than dwelling on the person themselves. Time was of the essence, and apparently, my eggs were dying. But that was nobody's business but my own.

I'd inherited my pragmatic nature from her. Knowing that things were just what they were, and would never be anything else, did sometimes put a damper on my existence, but it was usually a comfort to know that nobody had any real control over anything.

While my father had been wondrous and fantastical, always optimistic, always warm; mum was real.

And so was I.

She reached for the bread between us, picking it up before using both hands to break it apart. It make a crinkling noise, like one long, continuous crack, and left crumbs on the table top. She handed one half to me before placing the other back down on the bread board.

"I know you don't want to hear this," she began.

What an awful way to start a sentence. Nothing good ever followed something like that. I could feel my chest tighten in anticipation, doubting that she was wrong, and that I'd actually really like it.

"But you'll need to marry someone Florence." She concluded.

I didn't know how to respond to that, so I didn't. Her answer didn't disappoint, it was indeed something I hadn't wanted to hear from her. But I wasn't at all surprised, I think a part of me knew this was coming. Mum looked tired then, worn out and sullen.

"I want to know you'll be taken care of." She reached across the table for my hand, placing hers atop it. I don't know who she was trying to comfort, but she looked like she needed it more than I did.