Looks Can Kill

Mother

The dream began pleasantly, a beautiful memory of her mother. It was like watching a slideshow of a kind, caring mother. Even if she was too worried about her image and her daughter's clothes, Reusa forgave her. She was a loving mother, and that was all Reusa could ask for.

Then the dream changed in a flash. Reusa was lying on a hard table with blinding lights in her eyes. Suddenly two fingers were lifted to her eyes, hovering above her eyeballs and she couldn't close her eyes. The fingers began descending and Reusa woke with a gasp.

The fire had burned down and the sun was coming up. A chill breeze pushed through Reusa and she shivered, not knowing if it was from fear or cold. She growled and pushed herself to her feet, shoving the blanket from her body. She took a deep breath of the crisp morning air and let the chilly air dry the sweat from her skin. Reusa kicked the ashes from her fire to spread them as she pondered her dream.

Reusa remembered most of her dark past. She remembered her sweet, innocent mother and the naïve child Reusa had been. She remembered most of her imprisonment with a man who was intimately involved with the darkest of evils. But there was a huge hole in her memory. How had she gotten from one scene, full of light and hopefulness, to the other, so full of hate and loathing?

Reusa froze, suddenly realizing she had never really been homeless. She could find the cottage; she remembered where it was. Her mother was probably still there, wondering what had happened to her little girl. Reusa shook her head and finished dispersing the ashes. She couldn't find her mother. It was too dangerous. She had changed drastically in the three years since John died. Who knows what she was like the last time she saw her mother? There was no way her mother would accept her. Reusa glanced down at her clothes. From her memories, Reusa's mother cared about image. She would always wear dresses and make-up and do fancy styles for her hair. Reusa definitely would not fit into her mother's image of who a refined lady would be. She wore grey skinny jeans with a few rips and a green tank top. Over the tank top, she wore a leather jacket that only reached halfway down her torso. She also wore fingerless leather bike gloves and black boots. Not to mention the knives she wore in a contraption strapped to each forearm. And yes. She did know how to use them. With a twist of her wrist, she could shoot the knives into her palm and retract them just as fast. Her mother would disapprove.

But the thought of that loving mother, sitting alone in her room, crying her heart out left Reusa feeling hollow and chastised.

Making a sudden decision, Reusa finished her packing and hopped on her motorcycle. She tried not to think about what she was doing too much. If she did, she would stop and turn around. Maybe find a job or something.

The cottage wasn't as far off the road as Reusa remembered. But maybe that was because she was on a motorcycle. Reusa parked her bike and stared at the house. Fear began to whisper doubts in her mind. This wasn't such a good idea.

Reusa stiffened. Was that the window curtain shifting? Was someone watching her? Was that someone her mother?

Mother's probably not even living here anymore. Reusa sighed and turned back to her motorcycle. Suddenly Reusa's curiosity swallowed her and she couldn't stand another minute of not knowing. She had somewhere to go, possibly a home and some resemblance of the past she had been ripped away from. If she didn't try, she would loose her chance. Reusa kicked down her kickstand and jumped off her bike. She walked up the pathway to the quaint little cottage and paused at the door.

She suddenly wanted to turn around and run away, like she had with everything else in her more recent life. She was all too used to running from her fears, not confronting them. But every time she remembered her reflection and her darkening eyes, she longed for the peace and security of her bygone, hopeful past.