Page 47 of Silken Chains
“MOMMY?”
I’m standing in our old living room, watching my mother as she sits at her writing desk. Her face is younger, her pen moves frantically across the paper, her expression a blend of intense focus and pure happiness.
“Laura honey, come here,” she calls, a smile lighting up her face, her eyes sparkling with the thrill of creation.
I get closer, curious. “What’s this story about, Mommy?” my younger voice asks simply, watching her write.
“It’s about a little girl who dreams big,” she answers, her voice brimming with excitement. “She travels through wondrous lands, meets magical creatures, and faces challenges with bravery and heart.”
“The little girl, does she find what she’s looking for?” I ask, completely drawn in.
“Every step is a discovery,” she says. “She learns about courage, friendship, and the magic within herself. It’s a journey of wonder and daring, a story to remind us all to dream and explore.”
“I wanna have adventures, too, Mommy,” I say with a smile, touching her cheek. “I miss you so much.”
She kisses my cheek gently. “Silly girl, I’m right here with you.”
Then, the moment shatters. “Don’t be ridiculous!” my father’s voice cuts through, dripping with scorn. “Your stories are pointless. No one cares about them.”
I want to stand up for Mommy, to scream at him to leave her alone.
But I can’t. I just watch as Mommy’s face falls, her light dimming.
Soon, she stops writing. The table, once cluttered with papers and pens, now hosts a collection of empty bottles, her bed becoming her world. I try to write with her, to bring back the spark, but she can’t—or won’t—get up.
“Mommy, no…”
The room fades into darkness.
There’s my mother again, but this time, she’s different—haggard, her eyes dull. More of those empty bottles clutter the table where her stories once blossomed.
“Mommy, please, let me help you,” I plead, extending my hand toward her. “Let’s get rid of all this pain and start over together.” Wanting to wipe away the pain, the addiction, the slow destruction.
“Mommy?” I reach out to touch her. Her head lolls back grotesquely, eyes rolling up, blood trickling from the corner of her mouth. “No, no, no, Mommy! Please…” My cries echo in the void, tears streaming down my face.
“Stupid woman.” My father’s shadow looms over us, his voice cruel. “Serves her right.” His laughter is a harsh, grating sound.
“No!” I scream at him. “Go away!” I want him to disappear, but his laughter only grows, a booming mockery in the darkness.
I snap my eyes open, my heart racing, cold sweat coating my skin. It’s that same haunting dream that’s been chasing me since I was eighteen, the day I discovered Mom lying lifeless in her bed.
Brushing the tears from my face, I let out a shaky breath.
The dream’s grip loosens, but the room’s reality hits hard. Lifting my head, I’m awed by the ceiling. It’s huge, ridiculously high, dwarfing me beneath its vast expanse of elaborate plasterwork.
This isn’t my place.
The bed beneath me is too soft, the sheets too silky.
Where am I?
I sit up slowly, my head spinning, trying to piece together the fragments of memory from the night before, but before I can even start to figure things out, I am taken aback by the room.
Blinking hard, my eyes take in the scene. This room… it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen. It’s like stepping into a fairy tale—all pastel pinks and soft, luxurious fabrics. The delicate glow from the crystal chandelier above casts a warm light over everything, highlighting the opulence of the furnishings.
What the actual hell?
I spot the door across the room, half expecting someone to burst in any second. But the door stays firmly closed. Surreal. Clutching the bedsheet, my mind racing, the memory of what happened crashes over me like a wave.
