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Chapter Three, Lost in Translation
When you grow up only knowing the four walls of your bedroom, memorizing the kitchen floor's pattern and the hum of the birds that chirp every morning, you learn to become your own companion. You become your own friend, your own comfort, making up for the absence of the ones you never got to meet.
Amelia liked to believe she was more than just a girl with a different life, forced to live differently—more than a product of locked doors and unanswered questions. But everything about her reality pointed to the contrary.
She'd always been on her own. She couldn't afford the luxury of having friends or anybody's company, only her mother's. Be it in San Diego, Russia, or Hawkins, it was Amelia and Margot against the world. The only constant in her life had been her mother. It had always been like that—mother and daughter.
It never seemed like an issue to her. She loved her mother with every ounce of her heart and always looked up to her; she wanted to be like her, dress like her, talk like her. She grew attached to her. Margot was her world, her safety net during thunderstorms, and her warmth when the nights grew cold and terrifying.
Margot had never left her side. She raised her right, with love and care and a gentle touch to her cheek. She didn't raise her voice at her. Never slammed a door. She didn't keep the world away from her. Never made Amelia feel small.
She tried her best to make her life feel a little more normal with what she could, be it by spending evenings folding paper butterflies, sneaking away to a nearby park for ice cream, whispering stories into Amelia's ear when she couldn't sleep.
Mother was the exact opposite of Father. She would always fulfill both spots, do everything he never did.
There's a special kind of power in mothers like her—women who carry the burden of two roles, who soften every harsh word spoken by the man who claims to love them but only ever controls them. Mothers like her are the only warmth in a house where shadows seem to stretch too long.
Being independent was different. Amelia enjoyed it as a kid. She didn't mind grabbing a book, sitting by her bed and reading it to herself. She didn't mind the days when she had to tuck herself into bed because Margot was busy in the kitchen. But time flew by, and independence was mistaken for loneliness.
This loneliness also became a problem. One she could handle, but it caused her a silent pain she couldn't talk to anybody about. She hated being alone. She hated being with the shadows of the night, with the eerie silence in the mornings. She hated being able to think and think and give her mind the power of calling herself an outcast. A mistake. A helpless girl with no way out.
Which was why Amelia always looked forward to getting things done with her mother; be it cooking, baking, knitting, drawing, painting, whatever it was. She always wanted to learn from her, and she'd rather do anything instead of allowing the murmurs of her bothersome thoughts to get under her skin—the same ones that reached out to her every night before she slept, declaring her a ghost in her own home, unworthy of happiness.
