Cherry || b.barnes

07 || Comfort Zone

»Pajarito, you know you've got to empty the meal. The weather tomorrow won't be great if there's something left.« My mother swings her tanned fingers from the other side of the table, her dark brown eyes still kind when she looks across the round wooden table. Almost black hair, beautifully curling around her sharp-angled face, a feature I definitely inherited of her, falls forward when she tries to shovel the soup into her mouth. With her thin nose, high cheekbones and absolutely stunning figure, she has always been a good example to me; when I am grown up, I want to be like her.

Although we live in the upper rooming of a small hut on the edge of Artemisa, my mother cared for me to be raised bilingual. I always mocked her with my English being far less accented than hers, and mostly, she laughed along with it, telling me that someday, I would understand that an accent is not always a bad thing.

The clock on the wall rings for seven in the evening, and I blow at the liquor in my spoon, trying to cool it down. »But I don't like the soup. I never did.« My voice sounds squeaky, whining. It is a shame my mother never experienced its deep richness. »I want chicken nuggets.«

»Sometimes, you do things although you don't like it, because it serves a greater purpose. This, my dear, is in our case your health.«

I just want to answer, when there is a sudden rumble coming from outside the kitchen's window in my back. The glance of my mother shoots upwards, fixing on something in the darkness I can't make out when I turn around. The cling of her spoon hitting the bowl breaks through my stare, making me shudder all over when I turn to her.

Whatever color has been in her warm, a little browner yet rosy face, it is gone. I never saw her as pale, not even when she was sick, and unease mixed with a faint scent of nausea creeps up my conscience, forming a tight knot in my stomach. »Mamá, what's-«

»Get into your room, querido, and hide.« Every emotion of hers is erased, no melody left in any of her words. I don't need to be told twice, standing up immediately but before leaving the room, gently tugging on my mother's long, colorful skirt. »What is it, Mamá?«

»Surely, it's just a bird or something.« she smiles nervously, hands rubbing along the fabric of her clothes before standing up herself, and gently running her palm along my hair. I don't really believe her; we're just days away from my eighth birthday, meaning it is the beginning of December now, and there aren't birds around.

Anxiety gets a hold of me, and I cling to her legs. »It's going to be fine, I promise. You don't have to worry. But I need you to promise me something in return, okay?«

Carefully glancing upwards, her thin, dark brows are furrowed in worry. I nod against her leg, closing my eyes to not face the demons waiting outside. My fantasy spins and spins, making me believe there's some purple monster with fins and claws right outside our door, just waiting to get a hold on me and eat me. »Promise me, when you hear something very loud or uncommon, run.«

»Wh-What? Where... where should I run? Would you run with me?«

Blackness. Utter blackness followed by a heat so intense I thought it might be hellfire. Dreams like these were strange: parts of me knew I was reliving memories, and still, I feel and see and hear and smell everything like the past repeating itself, starring me as the main character again. Something in between being here and there, something in between observance and gamer, something in between me now and me then.

And just like this, the little hut we lived in burns in the night when I run back hours later. We're too far outside for anyone to notice; the people must be asleep and didn't see the roaring smoke, the tongues of flames trying to lick the clouded sky above and despite it all, my body already seems to be frozen to the bones. A few of my bare toes already turned into a slight shade of blue. I know it is no good sign, but I have to get back if there's no one else looking for her.