❝ She's in my head and has you on her radar. You either leave and forget who I ever was, or live to kill me. ❞
❝ Is there a third option that doesn't involve losing you? ❞
. . . in which Rhea's fear of her own mother becomes so unruly that a masked...
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"YOU'RE MOMMY'S GIRL, aren't you?" The mother held her child's trembling hands in hers, quietly pleading with the young girl who refused to look her in the eyes. Instead, her innocent mind stayed fixated on the crimson liquid slowly spreading out on their cold, hardwood floor like how her mushroom soup did when she spilled it the day before; when life was normal.
"Rhea... Look at me," the mother who stayed kneeled before her spoke again, "and tell me that you're my girl."
The 5-year-old child couldn't hear a thing, not when her noisy head kept telling her that that was Dad's blood on the floor - and on Mom's floral dress.
"Are you listening?! TELL ME!"
She never liked shouting, in fact, she was incredibly sick of it. But her mother's shrill voice forced terror to course through her veins, because Mom only ever shouts at Dad.
"Yes Mom."
The mother patted her daughter's head before a gentle, satisfied smile crept up to her chapped lips, "That's a good girl. Now, tell me that this was an accident where he fell from the ladder and hit his head on the edge of the drawers," she pointed at the ladder beneath the flickering light bulb and then to the chest of drawers that stood beside her motionless husband.
"He fell... and hit his head..." The child repeated slowly, eyes not leaving the very objects that supposedly took Dad away from her.
"Just like Humpty Dumpty, isn't that your favorite nursery rhyme, dear?"
