"A flower that blooms in adversity is the most rare and beautiful of all."
- 8th of Ymiden, 702 Arc
“Mama, wake up…,” a bony hand pushed back dark matted curls from a woman’s face, and a little girl leaned in, kissing her on the cheek, “I have breakfast.” There was some shuffling and the pressure of a tray being set down on the foot of the mattress, “Look mama, your favorite. Bread and honey.”
Syhera stood patiently at the figure whose eyes opened but whose body didn’t try to move. She smiled optimistically and with gentle hands, grabbed her mother by the arms and pulled her up so that she was sitting upright, “Today’s going to be a good day,” she whispered, and climbed atop the bed, beginning to cut the hardened bread and pull apart the pieces that showed signs of early mold. Her stomach growled, but she said nothing, humming a sailor’s tune as she spread the golden condiment against the brown starch. She held it out and her mother took it, staring blankly at the offering.
In her eyes was no recognition, no delight. No humor or thanks at the food and a deep, laborious breath escaped her and she leaned back against the head board, cradling the bread in her lap, “Thank you, Syhera,” her mother’s words were monotone, as dry as the food would taste – like ash in her mouth. To the wall she looked, not seeing the mess of the room.
Around her the small living space felt suffocating to a point of delirium. A pile clothes sat discarded in the corner with a bucket for washing, and dishes were piling up. On the table were a number of papers she assumed belonged to her daughter for school, and she blinked.
Gwynthera glanced at her daughter. Syhera was dressed in a pale blue dress that was beginning to get too small for her, a growth of her thin legs making the outfit short and tight. Her red hair was combed and pulled back in a neat, white ribbon. Around her neck was a little shell made into a necklace by some old string, but no shoes covered her feet. Hera patted the bed, handing over the last piece of bread and licking the dull parts of the knife, “We’re learning a lot of stuff in school,” she offered conversationally, sliding off the bed and walking across the room, “I can divide now. And multiply. And I asked Ms. Fawcett if she knows about calculating Rynmere’s tax on goods and I think she’s going to show me after class,” Hera went a retrieved a washcloth, and dipped it in some water. Hera moved slowly to conserve energy, and when her eyes dropped to the still untouched food in her hands, she stopped by her side, “Please eat something today, Mama.”
Nothing in her expression changed, “Maybe later.” Gwyn set the food on the bedside table and before she could allow herself to lay back down – her body was so heavy and her bones ached as much as her heart – Syhera took her hand.
“Yeah,” Sadness tinted the red head’s words and she didn’t look at her mother’s face, “Maybe later.”
They both knew it to be a lie. Gwyn looked at where she had sat the food and noticed that the plate from the night before was gone. The food from supper had not been touched by her, and had grown cold and wilted. But the plate she had cast aside had disappeared and in its place was a steaming glass of tea. Gwyn looked at the window where no sunlight yet trickled through the pane. How early was it?
The wet rag was dabbed experimentally on her skin and she heard her daughter’s voice, once again trying to interest her. She wanted to tell it was a lost cause, to leave her be and that she was tired, but Hera wouldn’t stop, “Ms. Fawcett says I’m one of the smartest girls in the class. Which is why she’s going to show me extra math. For tax, I think you take the sum and multiply it, and then…”
Gwyn stopped listening, her eyes closing. Hera’s words sounded fat and far away, and faded in and out. Hera still washed her arms and face, promising they could clean her hair tonight. Tonight. If there was a tonight. “I’m tired, darling,”
She was tired every day.
Hera’s hands hesitated and she nodded quickly, “Are you sure you don’t want to go… downstairs? Maybe some fresh air would…”
’Help you,’ Syhera wanted to say.
When Gwyn didn’t show interest in moving, Hera lifted her head and smiled, “You’re right. You should rest.” She turned quickly, and her little feet pattered lightly across the scratched floor, and on the quilt where Hera had been sitting was the butter knife, shiny and beautiful against the musty fabric. The older woman stared at it with overwhelming and dangerous desire, her reflection contorted and elongated in the tarnished metal. It ridges were tiny, but sharp like the teeth of an angry and desperate creature and then it was gone. Snatched up and taken away.
Reality slammed into Gwynthera and she lifted her face to look the young girl that stood staring at her. The first time she saw fear on her daughter’s face, and guilt threatened to consume her. Why was she like this?
Hera was a withering flower, her cheeks gaunt and sharp. Her bright eyes looked sunken and hungry. Even her lips were dry and cracked, her porcelain skin grey and sickly. It pained her that… she didn’t care, even as her daughter was shriveling up before her. Because of her. What did she look like?