I don’t remember much about my mother. I only know her through vague tarnished memories and the stories everyone tells me about her. From what I am told, I am like her in every way imaginable. She had a gentle voice, and strange eyes that reflected a watery blue hue. But what was most captivating about her was her unnaturally long a raven hair that always flowed around her. My mother was a very abhorrent woman who always strayed away from the other villagers.
I do not want to call my mother an outcast, but she was not accepted by many of the other woman of the village of Kalm. My father, when he was vacant, made sure to keep her away from the eyes of the other villagers. She was strange one, always unoccupied with strangers. The only people she ever associated with was me, my father, and my sister. I was unaware of the situation of difference of my mother until I was about four. I do not want to degrade an average woman’s beauty, but when compared to other individuals my mother was physically extraordinary. From the photographs I have seen of her, she did not age. She always obtained a youthful appearance even during child birth and pregnancy.
My mother taught me two languages, the native language of Gaia, and her native language. She called it Cetran. It was always strictly enforced by my parents that I never spoke my mother’s native language outside of the home to strangers. I never associated with strangers in general, only my mother and my sister. My sister was my only friend and playmate. We often secluded ourselves from other children and were very close in age, only a year and a half apart.
My sister, Felicia resembled our father more than she did our mother. She had my father’s dark eyes and ash-red hair. She was quieter than me, and often kept to herself. Although Felicia could be bossy, I still always followed her around and echoed her disposition. How I longed to be like her, even at an early age.
My father was never around much, his job at Shinra kept him away for weeks at a time. I didn’t exactly know what he did, but all I knew was that he was a Turk. Because of his income we were able to live quite comfortable lives in Kalm. We lived in a large home in a secluded part of the village surrounded by a beautiful garden which my mother nurtured constantly. I like to think we were happy in that village together, but in reality we were utterly alone. My father has painted memories for me of what used to be, and most of what I remember is of what he has told me.
Or what I have chosen to tell myself.
As I have grown, I have realized that I have become more like my mother than I ever imagined. Or at least half of what she used to be.
…
I am a child, barely five years old.
It is raining outside the window, and my hands are rested upon the glass in front of me. Each time I breathe a cloud of fog emerges upon the window seal. My eyes study the bodies of rain drops that have clung themselves onto the glass. I am waiting for someone.
From behind me I hear my mother cooking something from the kitchen. The food she has prepared is sizzling in the pan, and every so often I hear her jumble through cupboards and drawers. I hear Felicia’s boots creep upon the wooden paneling of the floor. Every step she takes is noisy because of her impudent boots. The closer she gets to me the louder he footsteps become. I become suddenly angry, we are not allowed to wear shoes inside. Especially boots.
After a few moments she finally enters the room, she is breathing heavily. My eyes are still fixed upon the rain outside the window, and my back towards her.
