Chapter Two:

“Eva, Marcus, come down for breakfast!” Mother shouts from the kitchen. I finish tidying up my bed as the smell of bread and roast pork fills the room. I look around to make sure there are no specks of dust lying around and that I put everything away with care. My books stand on the shelf, organized in alphabetical order. All my clean clothes are in my drawers, and any dirty laundry is in my laundry basket. I wipe some sweat off my brows and make my way downstairs. I see Mother assembling the tableware. The kitchen is rather small, so she doesn’t have to move far between the stove and the table. Mother gracefully navigates the room, the left arm of her tunic flowing around her. My Mother and Father were former adventures, but a horrific battle left them crippled. Father lost an eye and burned his arms. Mother lost her left arm, and an attack left her face scarred. They decided to settle down in the countryside, where they would lead a more serene lifestyle.

“Mother let me help you,” I try to reach the cabinet, tiptoeing and outstretching my hand. “Eva it’s ok, go sit down and eat your breakfast.” My Mother says, giggling at the attempt to reach the kitchenware. I plop myself at the kitchen table, the plate of food already made for me. The pork glistens with fat, and a warm and pleasant air comes from the bread. I am about to grab my fork, there's a little bit of drool forming in my mouth, but I hesitate. I sit upright, and I focus on Mother. She’s getting her and Father’s plate ready, and as she does so she gives me a disapproving look.

“Eva, are you alright, why aren’t you eating?”

I flinch, I see a flash of the last woman who raised me. I go into a cold sweat, and I'm beginning to feel ill.

“I’m fine Mother, I just want to wait for Father.”

Mother gives me a weird look, “Alright, but make sure you finish all your food before you leave the table alright?”

I give a nod, and as Mother seats herself, I can hear a loud yawn and the creaking of wooden stairs.

My Father is built like a snowy mountain, a towering figure covered in white hair that stops at his forearms. He’s wearing a shirt that is too tight for his broad shoulders. My fault, as I ruined his old one trying to wash it.

“Good morning loves!” He squeezes his way through the kitchen and plants a kiss on my head; I give him a weak smile. He sits next to Mother and plants a kiss on her cheek.

“Oh Lucina, this looks lovely, thank you for the food.” “Thank you Mother,” I whisper. It’s been nine years since I’ve been in this world, and one of the best things I’ve experienced is the food. Everything looks the same as the old world, but the food tastes so much better. Even with just a little salt added, the flavors erupting from the food are immaculate. I melt with each bite I take, and I am so engrossed in the food I fail to see my parents grinning as I take my last bite.

My Father lets out a soft chuckle that turns into a hearty laughter.

“A voracious appetite, just like your Mother.” I see my Mother’s face turn red at the remark, and she gives him a punch on the shoulder.

“I’m not lying though!” He glances at her plate. I take a glance and see that the plate is wiped clean. I swear we were only sitting down for a couple of minutes.

I almost let out a small laugh but I bite my tongue. I want to enjoy this moment and embrace this family as my own. But there is an aching feeling in the very depths of my stomach. They’ve been nothing but good to me, but I haven't earned their love. What did I do to warrant a good life? It’s been nine years, yet I still feel like a stranger, not a child to loving parents. Everything feels like a dream; if I embrace this dream then it will all fall apart.

Stolen novel; please report.

My parents share a laugh in a bubble of joy, but then they look at me, meekly eating my food across from them with no reaction to their small moment of joy. An awkward silence grows as the bubble pops and the laughter dies down.

I hop out of my seat and bring my plate to the sink.

“Mother, do you want me to take your plate?”

“No Eva, it’s ok.”

Mother slowly gets out of her chair and squats down to greet me. Her face is hovering inches away from me. I stare at the flap on her left arm, and then at the faded scars on her cheek. I can tell that she is staring at me with an intense gaze, piercing at me as if she’s trying to reach out her hand.

“Eva my love, are you alright?”

A sincere question, one filled with concern a parent should have. But I’m scared to meet her eyes. I’m frightened to see what’s behind those eyes: disappointment, anger, resentment. Any one of those are the only feelings I associate with a Mother. I fear the face of my Mother. I tense up, and the only thing I can do to answer her question is nod.

“Can I go back to my room please?” I stutter and flub some of the words.

I can see my Mother tense up as well, not pleased with my response. She puts a hand on my shoulder and tries to nudge me closer but I’m still frozen.

“You can go Eva.”

I creep out of the kitchen. When I reach the stairs I scamper to my room and crash into my bed. I soak my pillow as I weep, trying my best to suppress screams and hiccups. When I see my Mother, I still see the woman who abused me. Why do I still see her? It’s been a lifetime, yet she still haunts me; looming over my shoulder critiquing every move I make. Every day, I had to prove my existence, to show that I was worth being a daughter; if I didn't serve, I was useless. That was all in the past, yet it’s still grasping at my neck. It’s choking and blinding me from seeing this life. I yearn to be the child they deserve, but I don’t think I’ll ever be enough.

Foul thoughts plague my mind before I hide away in sleep.

*****

I wake up and rub my eyes, crusty from all the tears. I look out my window and see two moons hovering in the sky. I sneak out of my room and walk towards the kitchen. Mother usually calls for dinner now, but I must have slept through her knocking.

I make my way downstairs and turn to the kitchen. There are three plates: two half-eaten and one left untouched. The fire is still flickering in the stove. I walk to my parents' room and see the door left ajar. Peeking through the crack, I see Father holding Mother with a firm grasp around her waist. He caresses her hair as she leans her head on his shoulder. I focus, listening to my Father’s attempt at comforting my Mother.

“Eva has always been special, we just have to take our time.”

There is silence in the room and no response from Mother. The only things moving are my Father’s hand and a small fire flickering in the fireplace. My Mother buries her face into my Father's chest, I can see her trembling, and tears falling onto his lap.

“I know Marcus, I know. I tell myself that she will come around. That one day she’ll want me to hold her, to carry her, to smile when she looks at me, to be proud that I’m her Mother. I wait, but every time I look at her, that day fades from memory. Did you know she's never said 'I love you Mom'? Not even once.” Mother raises her head to Father, I can see her eyes are puffy and red,

“I have a daughter who doesn’t want to be held by her own Mother. She won’t even look at me.” I tense up, fearful of retaliation from Mother. She’ll go on a tirade about how I am a useless daughter who can’t even make eye contact without freezing in fear. I prepare for the worst, but the worst doesn’t come.

“But I can’t blame her,” Mother says through stifled cries. My body relaxes, and the tense sensation I have melts away. I was expecting anger or frustration in her voice, but all I hear is guilt and sorrow.

“Lucina, we’ve been over this, that is not the reason.”

“If it’s not, what would it be? You don’t see what I see Marcus. This face scares people. I can’t even go to the market without fearful stares following me around. I can tolerate it from strangers; I’ve learned to live with it, but for my own daughter to hold the same eyes?”

Father tilts his head and places their foreheads together in comfort. “Your daughter loves you, and don’t let anything ever tell you otherwise.”

Mother grabs Father’s hand and gently puts it on her cheek, touching the scattered scars on her face. Mother whispers through trembling lips, “Marcus, my love, I want you to tell me truthfully and honestly. Do I look like a Mother?”