Wilted Roses Beneath The Surface (Catradora love story)

Mother Dearest

The test reads positive...Two bright, striking pink lines fill the woman's mind, and all she can feel is her heart thumping in her chest. She doesn't cry- won't cry. All she can feel is anger. Red, hot anger, like when something goes wrong at the last minute and your entire day is suddenly ruined. Or when you've finally made it, can finally grasp it in your hands, and then poof! It's gone. You haven't made it. You've fallen, scraped your knee, and now you're down. She doesn't want it...

She can't get rid of it. Her husband is forcing her to keep the worthless being; and why? Well she couldn't tell you. She tried to convince him- "But why! We could be happy and free, just the two of us-" a loud smack echoes throughout the austere bedroom. "Enough! I want the child. I will not tarnish our reputation any further! People already think lowly of us; perhaps if we raise a child they'll think we're doing well financially, and that we're happy. End of discussion...Now, it's time for my meeting." And with that, he was off for another few hours. But still, the woman did not cry, she just wouldn't...

It's a girl. "Oh, aren't you just so excited to dress her up and decorate her room!?" Gushed the woman at the check-out station of the grocery store. The woman put on a cold, fake smile, "Why yes, my husband and I just can't wait." And she left before the woman could respond or even give her a receipt. Later that night when her husband yelled in her face, berated her, and grabbed her wrist forcefully to reprimand her for not preparing dinner just because she felt nauseous, she did not cry. Not even when she cowered over the toilet bowl in the middle of the night, looked up from the edge of the tub and noticed the deep reds and purples forming on her wrist, or when she snuck a surprise in her husbands coffee as an apology in the following morning. She wouldn't cry.

After her husband was admitted into the hospital for severe poisoning, she felt slightly better. It was suspected that he must've mixed up his meds again, because why would his loving wife ever poison him, tarnishing their beloved reputation and marriage?

It was only worse when her husband returned and her pregnancy was almost over. Any day the baby would be born into a household of toxicity, and she wasn't ready. She had felt off all day long. But that was her life, wasn't it? Just off and all wrong. When it came time to deliver her baby, she'd have to have an emergency c-section due to the child being strangled by the umbilical cord. Not even born yet and already in danger.

Afterwards she's sore and leaky. She's tired and her husband isn't here. He was at the hospital, yes, and on the first day. But a week later and his work buddies weekly lunch is more important than the birth of the child he wanted. She had been wailing for the past five minutes, but the woman couldn't bring herself to figure out what was wrong. She was fed, changed, burped, held. What more could she want? A loving home? Parents who actually wanted her? Who knows? The woman did not allow herself to even cry when her baby looked up at her with tears forming at the corners of her big eyes, and red cheeks stretched as she wailed some more. She couldn't cry, not even when her newborn looked at her with so much want held in those azure blue and honey amber eyes. But when her husband finally stumbled in and yelled at her, shoving her while the baby was in her arms, and her cry grew louder with each shout, fear present in her big baby eyes. She finally allowed a single tear to stream down her face before she made up her mind.

She actually quite enjoyed pretending to cry at her husband's funeral 7 years later. She was finally freed of that burden. Now just one more...

Her daughter cried too, though it was probably genuine.

He had a heart attack. But what caused it at age 36 is a secret. His love is lethal. If she didn't do it, he would've done it to himself.

"Catrina, it's time to go now. Come along." And they were off.

It's only one year later when the woman is angry because her lazy, useless co-worker got the promotion instead. The woman came home late, smelling of alcohol and some expensive perfume they couldn't really afford. She threw her bags and shoes at the wall the moment she stepped through the door. Like some kind of portal shifting from her persona to reality. From calm, widowed mother to depressed, unhappy couch drinker. "Catrina! I told you to turn this tv off when you are finished with it! Now you have lost this privilege!" The woman stumbled behind the tv, yanking the cord from the wall aggressively, cutting Sam&Cat right off.

Catra hid in her room. The moment she heard the door open she quickly shoved her art supplies and handmade bracelets into a bin under her bed, hid in her closet with both lights off. She took deep breaths and twisted the bracelet on her wrist between her thumb and pointer finger. She heard crashes and smashes of glass breaking against walls. She heard curses and screaming as her mother banged on the walls and wailed in agony and frustration. She just knew her mother was pulling at her hair at the dining table, leg bouncing up and down, up and down as she gulped down another glass before her anger returned and throwing it at the poor wall. The abuse was always within the home rather than the people in it, it seems. Catra took a risk by peeking out her bedroom door after twenty minutes of silence. Her mother looked up from glaring at her lap, huffed and yelled, "Go to bed you insolent child!" Before throwing an empty bottle of cheap wine at the door, just missing the mini brunette.

Catra always cried. She never held it in. Even when her mother slapped her for it, giving her something to cry about...

Catra knew it wasn't safe. But she couldn't escape the abuse built into her "homes" walls. Her bedroom was full of drawings of a devil couple with sharp horns and evil grins, corrupting something that could've been good, left alone. One in particular labeled family tree, ma, da, cat. Her stick figure wasn't smiling. It was crying and scared. She remembered how she felt at five years old when she drew that. She's better now, at drawing. She doesn't put her father in her drawings anymore though. The final drawing related to him was of his gravestone and the dirt and casket underneath. He was just a skeleton, nothing more, nothing less.

Catra knew better than to let anyone see her drawings. It isn't normal to depict your parents as devils, she knows. She learned from tv shows and kids at school or the grocery store. If her mother saw them, she would give her more than just a slap to cry about...

But one day, when Catra was eleven, she dreamt that she left this abusive home. That she met a family she really loved, and instead drew pictures of places she'd been and the things she'd seen.

When she woke up, she cried. Shed all of her past and all of her present. She thought of the future and started planning. She felt a lot lighter that night too.