#he couldn't handle the financial burden of the bakery not going so well and having so many mouths too feed

[decayedhearts]

@soothsaer​ sent:   💭 + trey + trauma   [Send me a “💭“ and your Muse will experience one of my muse’s Memories]

A sweet scent suddenly fills your nose and then you’re carried away on a cloud of cinnamon and apple, the school disappearing from your eyes and changing into a place you’ve never seen before..

It’s the big kitchen in the back of the bakery, the one where most of the baking happens. There’s a smaller area in the shop part too where some minor cake and cookie decorating is done, but that’s your father’s job and you’ve never helped him out there. Not yet. Some day you’ll be allowed to take over there as well. If you’re honest, it makes you nervous to think about - what if you mess up while people are watching? All that money wasted if you have to give it away for free (because who will buy messed up cake?), or worse, all that food wasted if mother decides to throw it away. Maybe you could sneak it out of the kitchen and give it to your sister, pretend you failed it on purpose so she could have some sweeties before bedtime. She’d probably like that.

“Trey, honey? Be careful not to let the dough dry up,” mother’s voice pulls you from your thoughts. You look at the lump of dough you’ve been kneading and nod. “Yes, mum,” you promise, poking the soft mass with your fingers to see if it’s starting to crack. It’s still okay, but if you’re not careful, it’ll dry up like mother said. You’ve done this often enough by now to recognize its stages, you shouldn’t make mistakes like that anymore.

You start splitting the dough into smaller pieces, rolling little balls and placing them on the counter. They all need to be the same size or else the finished buns won’t turn out the same, some will burn while the others are still raw, and you won’t have time to check them all individually. There’s so much left to do for tomorrow and you’re already getting sleepy. You hear the front door opening, the familiar jingle of the bell distracting you for a moment, but you stay focused on your task. There was a time where you’d drop what you’re holding and run to greet father, but that time is past. “Your father is back,” mother says and smiles at you. No, she looks sad. No.. she is smiling. She leaves the room and closes the door behind her.

You make more dough balls but you lose count of them as you place them on the counter. The sound of the clock ticking on the wall is so loud it feels as though it should make the loose flour vibrate on the counter’s surface. You hear their voices in the other room. They’re loud just normal, but you can’t make up any words. Mother is crying laughing about something. Maybe father told a joke; he used to do that a lot when you were little. Well, when you were younger, you are still little, compared to him.

You’re still counting by the time mother comes back, but the numbers are all jumbled in your head. Maybe it’s 15, or maybe it’s 49. Mother is quiet and so are you, your small whispered counting just loud enough for her to recognize you’re still doing it. You need her to know that, you’re not sure why, but the thought of her asking if you overheard them makes your stomach ache. You heard nothing.      “I’m done, mother,” you say out loud and turn to find your mum sitting on her chair by the window, her hand on her round belly. She’s in tears. Again. There is flour on her cheek and before you know you move to wipe it away, your small hand coming away damp.

And then she’s hugging you, holding you so tight it hurts a little, your small chest unable to take in breath like it should. You don’t remember the last time she hugged you to comfort you. You haven’t asked her to in a while. It wouldn’t feel like comfort from someone so broken. She’s whispering words into your ear that you don’t want to hear, words you choose not to understand. If you don’t understand them, maybe they won’t be true.

The bakery needs to stay afloat so you can keep the house and pay the bills, that much you understand. “I’ll help, mum,” you say, while your chest still hurts. You wish she would let go of you already. You already messed up so much, almost caused them to lose it all at the hands of a wrathful woman with a heart of stone. Irresponsible. The bakery needs to stay afloat so he won’t leave, you already messed up so much--- the bakery needs to stay afloat or she will go away too. You’re all she has, of course you’ll help. If you’ll help everything will turn out fine, the bakery will stay, father will stay, your sister will be fine and the baby--

The memory breaks off with a snap, like a film tearing.