Freaks

5 • forgiving

❝Forgiveness is the fragrance that the violet sheds
on the heel that has crushed it.❞
ｍａｒｋ ｔｗａｉｎ

___

"ＥＭＭＡ, what are you doing?" says Aunt Victoria, sighing heavily as she enters the kitchen.

I turn for a moment to glance at her approaching figure, then return to the mixing bowl tucked under my right arm.

"Making cookies." I reply, stiffly. Baking usually me helped de-stress, but it seemed I was too distracted by all my worries to concentrate on the task. The batter has become too hard and sticky and I suspected I may have to break the wooden spoon out.

Aunt Victoria comes closer to peer over my shoulder. I tense up immediately.

I haven't found enough generosity in me to forgive the two of them, despite the fact tomorrow would make it a week ago. The argument may seem silly to anyone else, but I personally couldn't bear the thought that the two people I trusted most in the world kept something so big from me all these years. All I could think about was how many people I'd hurt because of their actions.

And that only made me think of Andrew's last words to me. The fire wasn't an accident.

Aunt Victoria watches me struggle with the batter for another minute before saying softly, "Here, give it to me."

I reluctantly concede, handing her the mixing bowl, with the complimentary spoon cemented into the mixture.

"I thought I already knew the recipe by heart." I reply quietly after a moment of silence between us, "I guess I got sidetracked... Well, you already know I have a lot on my mind."

Aunt Victoria is in the process of excavating the spoon from the bowl, when she registers what I said. She stops her actions, looking up at me regretfully, "We're so sorry, Em. We thought we were doing what was best."

"As you've already said," I reply curtly. The brittle nature of my tone brings an awkward end to the conversation.

Aunt Vic opens her mouth to protest but seals it again, letting us fall into complete silence.

Despite maintaining an air of hostility, I shuffle closer to watch as she wordlessly works, skilfully adding the ingredients I had scattered on the counters, and mixing it all with an expert flick of her wrist.

Within no time at all the cookies were in the oven and Aunt Vic had moved on to clearing my mess. Though her actions made me feel guilty, I still stood there, watching her like a bitter idiot, not saying anything at all.

Our kitchen was a graveyard for the next 15 minutes. Resonating silence, countered only by the smell of warm, slowly baking chocolate chip cookies and the sound of rushing tap water.

So silent, that Aunt Vic physically jumped when the oven dinged. She starts to walk briskly towards the oven, when realising her hands were wet and retracing her steps in search of a hand towel.

My conscience finally wins the internal battle with myself as I speak, "I'll help."

I walk towards the oven, swinging the door open and reaching for the rack.