mommy issues // {arrows}
Oct 8, 2017 12:17:13 GMT -5
Post by napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Oct 8, 2017 12:17:13 GMT -5
Spark
MORRIS
MORRIS
Long ago, she thought these walls could whisper secrets and scandals for they broadcasted everything – her brothers’ heated banters about their respective training scores, the canaries’ screeches, her mother's faint sobs. She would listen to the sorrow in her breaths, and as time processed, they began to lull her to sleep in a sickly way. It was like a looped mantra of sobs and wails to which her ears became accustomed to. Nights wasted as she would lay sprawled over her bed, waiting for the slam of a bedroom door – and the satisfying click of a lock that trailed behind it. Soon, the walls became a hidden liaison between her and a darker side of her mother. She would listen and then, act as if it were the dawn of another idyllic day in the morning.
No questions asked about the source of her grief—dead smiles and nods whenever she lied.
“Are you okay, Mom?”
“Yes, I'm good, dear.”
Good, every single time.
Not bad, not great, not spectacular.
Good.
The worst thing was the state of stasis her eyes slip into after she'd been asked the question. They said eyes were the windows to a person's soul and whenever she peered through her irises, she could see her — shattered in pieces, barely able to piece together a facade to veil all of the sorrow leaking out of her. It all began when her father flung his duffel bag on a broad shoulder and ambled out of the house like his vacation days ceased.
Tiptoeing out of the house in heels was more difficult than she'd imagined it to be. Hollow clicks of the stilettos boomed like pitter-patter of rain on a tin roof, serving as the main conflict in her plan of a furtive exit from the house. Her mother was possibly upstairs; she assumed from the empty Chardonnay on one of the kitchen counters. Spark, after running her manicured nails through the waterfall of brown locks that cascaded down her back and fixing a few folds in her dress, made quick way to the door. Fingers on the handle, thinking she'd successfully slipped away unnoticed, she was greeted by a sudden shadow from her right.
“Mom.” A sudden lump rose into existence in her throat and she gave it a hasty burial.
“Spark. Where're you off to in such a hurry?”
The question hung in the air like weights and she tried to stealthily conceal her left hand from her mother's dead gaze. Whenever Spark thought about uttering a lie, the fingers in her left hand would do a sort of a liar, liar, pants on fire dance, subtle twirls and twists that weren't the most salient — but her mother would never fail to notice them. She was, after all, her offspring. Same genes in their blood, similar patterns of stars on their cosmic skins.
“Oh, just shopping.”
“Really? You aren't off to see your father?”
She didn't recognize the sudden fury that coursed through her veins — brought up by a sense of betrayal and broken trust. Spark, out of all her siblings, accused of such an atrocity? Spark, who called her own father a selfish asshole who needed to rot in every circles of hell.
“No, why would you think such a thing!?”
Her gaze fell and she could spot a glimmer of guilt in those dark eyes of her but Spark didn’t stay long enough to register them. The door cannoned shut behind her, and she staggered down a sun-kissed path, the tears on her cheek sparkling like platinum in the sepia light.
No questions asked about the source of her grief—dead smiles and nods whenever she lied.
“Are you okay, Mom?”
“Yes, I'm good, dear.”
Good, every single time.
Not bad, not great, not spectacular.
Good.
The worst thing was the state of stasis her eyes slip into after she'd been asked the question. They said eyes were the windows to a person's soul and whenever she peered through her irises, she could see her — shattered in pieces, barely able to piece together a facade to veil all of the sorrow leaking out of her. It all began when her father flung his duffel bag on a broad shoulder and ambled out of the house like his vacation days ceased.
Tiptoeing out of the house in heels was more difficult than she'd imagined it to be. Hollow clicks of the stilettos boomed like pitter-patter of rain on a tin roof, serving as the main conflict in her plan of a furtive exit from the house. Her mother was possibly upstairs; she assumed from the empty Chardonnay on one of the kitchen counters. Spark, after running her manicured nails through the waterfall of brown locks that cascaded down her back and fixing a few folds in her dress, made quick way to the door. Fingers on the handle, thinking she'd successfully slipped away unnoticed, she was greeted by a sudden shadow from her right.
“Mom.” A sudden lump rose into existence in her throat and she gave it a hasty burial.
“Spark. Where're you off to in such a hurry?”
The question hung in the air like weights and she tried to stealthily conceal her left hand from her mother's dead gaze. Whenever Spark thought about uttering a lie, the fingers in her left hand would do a sort of a liar, liar, pants on fire dance, subtle twirls and twists that weren't the most salient — but her mother would never fail to notice them. She was, after all, her offspring. Same genes in their blood, similar patterns of stars on their cosmic skins.
“Oh, just shopping.”
“Really? You aren't off to see your father?”
She didn't recognize the sudden fury that coursed through her veins — brought up by a sense of betrayal and broken trust. Spark, out of all her siblings, accused of such an atrocity? Spark, who called her own father a selfish asshole who needed to rot in every circles of hell.
“No, why would you think such a thing!?”
Her gaze fell and she could spot a glimmer of guilt in those dark eyes of her but Spark didn’t stay long enough to register them. The door cannoned shut behind her, and she staggered down a sun-kissed path, the tears on her cheek sparkling like platinum in the sepia light.
BY CHELSEY
Words: 598
Words: 598
