Her touch was gentle and soothing despite the fingers that were calloused over with years of hard labor. Her face was old and worn, even though she was so young. The woman looked tired and broken, her fingers smoothly brushing along the side of her son's face with a calming smile. Her hair was pulled back in a messy fashion, just as she always kept it. Her skin was tanned and littered with scars. She looked at her son with loving yet painful eyes. She loved him as much as she hated him. Those deep purple eyes bore through her skull and her muscles tensed, body frozen as she grew lost in thought with that stare. Only his voice brought her back to the present.
"Mom?"
She knew the boy had no idea of her hatred towards him. All he knew was her love and her love was all he received. Labeled as a whore, an outcast, the woman was forced to the outskirts of the village. No one spoke to them and no children dared play with the mother who was a cursed whore. They threw stones and other various objects at herself and her son. She was forced to raise her baby on her own and because of her mistake, her love, her son was punished as well. A cursed child with a cursed name. One who would never live a normal life as long as they remained here. But where else could she go? She was welcomed nowhere in her homeland and was unable to escape. Lost and forgotten.
"I'm sorry my love," she cooed gently to him, moving her hand away from his face and turning to face the table. Day in and day out, she sat at that table. Watching out the window with longing sighs and a broken heart. She was weary and nearly mute if not for her son, but still she hardly spoke to the boy, the small child constantly begging and craving for his mother's attention. Attention that he would never fully receive.
"Do you want to play a game?" He knew the answer already, but asked the question anyway. His mother was always too busy, looking out the window as though waiting for something during all those years. Yet nothing ever came. She mumbled under her breath, insisting that she would be welcomed back, offered a better life than her current, but it was just that. Mumbling under her breath. Her previous life before his birth too confusing to be explained to such a small child.
"Not right now. I'm not feeling well." The same excuse every time, but he did not question her. He could hear the tone in her voice. It was laced with sadness, years of sadness that built up in her chest, making it difficult for her to breath. It was as though a heavy weight had been pressed down against her, into that chair, and she could not bring herself to stand up.
"I'm going to play outside, okay?"
Without an answer the small child had already ran out the doorway, pulling back the cloth door and scaring away the birds that settled out front. She could see him from her window, watching him play. His ragged clothes hung widely off his thin frame. He was underweight, but she did nothing to gather more food. She had lost weight as well. She grew sickly thin over the time she spent caring for him, nearly skin and bones. Her chin rested into her palm as her other hand pressed against the table. Sadness washed over, wave after wave, choking her, suffocating her. How could she breath in this mess? Her mind moved slowly, time moved even slower. She watched her son, heard his laughter as he played by himself. It was not enough to bring her back.
It was what she did everyday. She watched him play, wept silently behind a smiling face. She kept strong for him, but her strength was dwindling. The more the boy grew the more he looked like him. Those deep purple eyes, ruffled dark hair and smoothly tanned skin. He could grow up to be just like him, strong and independent. He had already shown some of his personality. Everything about him dripped his father and she hated it. She hated the boy for that and sometimes wished to strangle him until he drew his last breath, but she loved him too much. She loved him and his father. Killing him meant killing the only thing she had left of the man.
After years of suffering in silence, she rose from her seat. Her cheeks dripping with tears. Clutched in her hand were a few wild flowers, picked by her son on her request. The flowers color were a rich purple and looked as though they were dipped in red. She caressed the petals quietly with the tips of her fingers.
The woman proceeded to pluck a large flower off its stem, placing it inside a small cup. A pot of water boiled on the fire, when it was finished, she poured the steaming liquid into the cup. The water changed to a soft shade of red, its sweet aroma filling the small home. She poured enough for herself, placing the pot down once more. "I'm sorry my love," she whispered softly as her fingers brushed against the rim of the cup.
Quietly the young mother sat down on the single bed in the room, sipping quietly from the cup. Her tears did not stop falling as her knuckles turned white with the force she had on the drink. She was regretful, wishing she could have been stronger for the sake of her son. His laughter could still be heard from the spot she sat in. Carefully she brought her gaze to the window, catching a glimpse of the boy as he ran around in the dust. A gentle smile pulled at her lips before she looked away.
As she laid to rest her muscles tightened and then spasm. Her eyes begun to close to blurry visions of her home, her son, and that man. Her breathing started to grow labored and pained. The struggling sounds were quiet and then silenced within moments. The woman's expression was soft, the sadness swept away as the last of her tears streaked her cheeks.
