Grey (Now Published!)

Chapter 1

Today

I walk frailly through the doorway of the kitchen, clutching a hot water bottle to my stomach while putting on the best 'I'm really sick, I'm going to sleep early' face I can master. My mother sits in her predictable armchair, sewing her predictable sweater that she's been working on for around a week. My father is in the opposite chair, reading through a large book, not bothered nor interested that my mother is even in the room. They sit as far apart from each other as they can, avoiding human contact is a necessity to their strange way of life. 

I start for the staircase slowly, holding on tightly to the wall to evade stepping too heavily on the floorboards. None creak, there isn't even the smallest sound of my breath releasing from my airways; but yet she hears me.

"Elizabeth."

I scrunch my face up in failure as my mother calls my name, I twirl back around, watching as she continues sewing, not bothering to lift her eyes to make eye contact. "Yes, mother?"

"Where are you going?"

I instinctively curve my spine, the words that roll off my tongue come out murmured and sickly. "Bed. I'm not feeling well."

"Have you cleaned the kitchen?"

"I did half of it but-"

"So, it isn't clean," she says, still not looking at me. "What was the order I gave you after dinner?"

"To clean the kitchen," I say.

"So, why did you only do half?"

"That's what I'm trying to tell you," I say, angrier than I should, I can't let it slip that I'm lying, I really need to get out tonight. "I feel dizzy. I need to lay down."

My mother gives nothing away with her face, she isn't one for expressions, so it's almost impossible for me to ever know what she's feeling, or thinking. In all my life of knowing her, she has always been this way, and everyday of my life it unnerves me. I have never seen her laugh, nor smile, I have never seen her kiss my father, I have never even seen them hold hands--it is as though they're not even human. 

The only day that will lift my parent's spirits is Sunday, when they force me to church against my will. Only then do I see a difference in their moods, and it reminds me that they are human after all.

She continues sewing, threading the needle with precise control as she takes a breath with admiration while staring down at her work. I watch her with an eyebrow raised, once again finding myself approaching the one-way adoption train. Sometimes I hope for it so much just so I can find an excuse to leave them and follow the trail of two complete strangers that could be anywhere in the world.

For years I would dream about finding this small, white cottage with rose petals blooming in baskets over the door. And after knocking on the heart-pounding oak wood that would leave a reverberation of steel chiming in my ears, there would stand my real mother; with a welcoming smile, brazen eyes and arms so loving that I would forget my entire life away from her.

This dream was a fairy tale that never came true, but I still hoped. I hoped because I have never felt loved in this house. I have never felt wanted. I've always felt second place to an imaginary being in the sky. It's been that way my entire life. I've always been invisible, neglected, and left wondering if there is any point to remaining alive. And then I found a point. I found a reason. I found it all.

"Do you know it is a sin to lie?" my mother asks me suddenly. 

"Yes," I say.

"Recite Proverbs, chapter twelve, verse twenty-two."