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tw: torture, abuse
Do mothers truly have unwavering love for their children?
You fail to understand why children have such silly and pointless fairytales. It was nothing but a fatuous and nonsensical delusion.
In the depths of your heart, a fervent desire for your mother's love dawdled — a love just like the fairy tales: pure and unconditional. You searched for that very affection for every moment you spent in that house.
You have no recollection of how much time you had spent with Mother in that home. There were no windows. The only light source came with the flickering lamps that occasionally had to be replaced with candles.
The most brilliant glow that came, however, was your Mother. Mother was the most captivating person you had ever seen. A face more exquisite than an angel's — she was the epitome of beauty itself. She captivated you at every juncture of time as you yearned for her attention and approval.
You often wondered if you would ever be cherished by this beautiful yet foreign Mother.
You do not remember her smiling, ever. Nevertheless, you recall her eyes that radiated such warmth that you could stay in her gaze for a lifetime. They were sweet, warm, and everything in between.
Mother had become broken through the years, and her eyes went cold.
When you were very little, she told you stories of the world outside — the radiant sun, busy streets; and of course, titans. Mother was always indifferent when she told stories. You do remember, however, a glimpse of sentiment in her eyes when she talked about Father.
She never told you much about him. All you knew was your father went by the name of Uri Reiss, and he used to gift Mother flowers.
As you got old enough to speak, Mother conversed very little. For a child whose world was limited to a small, dark home, along with a mother who spoke only a few words (and acknowledged you very little), you lacked the understanding of love.
So you did your best to acquire it.
"Mother, mother! Look! I've drawn the two of us!" Your ten-year-old self happily gestured to the illustration. With a fork in your hand — from the little amount of cutlery available to you — you had scratched the wooden walls of your home and drawn your first-ever artwork. The image portrayed Mother and yourself: smiling and holding hands, walking in a field of flowers.
Mother never smiled. Mother never held hands.
And Mother loathed flowers.
There was something uncanny about her expression at that moment. Her once emotionless eyes were blazing with disdain as a malicious smile crawled on her face. A ghastly fear cradled your body and loomed over your mind. As her long, malnourished legs made their way toward you, you backed against the wall and closed your eyes in fright. Your fists were clenched and you were trembling.
