#because its her FACADE her false politeness her false happiness in the circle

[vigilskeep]

colour symbolism breakthrough

[autunno101]

Mommie Dearest

"You don't get it, do you?" Her mother cocked her head, the arrogant smile slipping from her face. "Why he's so different from the rest of us?"

She laughed, wiping sweaty palms against her chapped lips. They burned as did her throat. The fire had exhausted her, yet she found the strength to laugh. A true laugh. Almost happy except for that tinge of grief - like storm clouds darkening the horizons of an otherwise sunny, beach day.

"Why he never gave you intel?" She mocked the woman, circling around her like a vulture just waiting for the prey to take its last breath. "He started thinking for himself. He started wondering how I... became such a bad person - that vile daughter of yours when I appeared nothing but kind. Polite and courteous in the markets. Laughing with crew members."

Her own smile began to form. Teeth biting her bottom lip in the anticipation.

"I let him walk beside me as I shopped. He even offered to hold my bags and I let him. I got up in the middle of a busy cafe, leaving my captain mid-conversation to move my stuff to his table and eat with him. They knew who he was and I knew why he came, but I sat with him anyway. They followed, talking to him like they'd known him forever. Letting him join us around the city. Being decent - something I'm sure you lack."

Her mother growled at the words, head snapping to the left as if she would strike. The 'vile' daughter danced back a few steps, shaking her head in false disappointment. She even tsked at the older woman.

"He's the opposite of me. The opposite of you. You thought that when you stuck him in that hell hole, that he'd come out angry. That he'd return with blood on his tongue and the scars of a thousand stories." She tossed her hands in the air, fingers wiggling in fictitious enthusiasm. "That he'd be hitting brick walls head on and -" she laughed again for the idea itself was foolhardy, "and that'd he'd be riding his fury so hard he'd see nothing but red."

It bubbled from her chest like how a child blew bubbles. Small, hiccups of glorified bath soap, then, large trains. Popping in the air and dancing about.  The sound echoed around them, drawing concern from the witnesses. Even her mother stood in shocked silence.

"He came out with such a-a profound grief," she clutched at the fabric just above her hammering heart. "It silenced him! Follows him! His words tumbled out a... a-a-a jumbled mess the first time I approached him! He couldn't even look me in the eye!"

Tears welled in her eyes. A fury coating her cheeks, tingling along her spine. The switch had been flipped.

He was the opposite of her.

She rode her fury like the gods rode the winds and tides. Like the angel of death that walks the land in desolate times, wreaking the havoc of a thousand soldiers and burying even more.

Her eyesight dimmed as that maddening drive rose to the surface.

"He can't even speak now! Because you gutted your own son - your youngest, darling boy and left him in an alleyway to bleed out." Her words spat in her mother's direction, though now she could barely stand to look the woman in the eye. "The only reason you are alive is because I valued his life far above your own. Killing you during the riots would have been so easy!"

Madness drove her forward. Short giggles escaped from her red lips. The last of her insane mirth.

"It would have been so easy." Like ice water, a calm and collective facade came forward. It stuck on like a theater mask would - so obvious to the audience, but captivating nonetheless. "So easy."

"He... He doesn't speak now. Not like he used to in those cafes and delis we would eat at. His words are low and scared and filled with insecurity." She jabbed a finger her mother's way, finally stepping close enough to touch her. "He thinks day and night, what he did so horribly wrong that his own mother would have him dead by her hand?"

The day had been exhausting. Just to get here, to stand here, before her had cost more than she wanted. But that one memory of dialing his number and waiting for him to pick up. Asking him a question she very well knew the answer to. Listening to his low, crushing tone. The obvious reply.  

"When I called and asked him if he wanted to see you, all he said - so low the devil could hear him - was that he never wanted to see your face again."