saying anything else and I squeeze her back. We sit there in silence for a long time, neither of us wanting to lose this moment—this peace that we share so equally. No birds sing outside the window, and no monsters scream for our blood. We are safe, for now. We made it through another night, together.
My stomach growls loudly, disrupting the silence, and Lilly giggles and looks up at me once more. Her small rosebud mouth stretched wide into a large smile, her eyes are dancing, like a child’s should be. Not devoid of life and innocence, lost.
“I need a drink,” she whispers.
“I need to eat,” I say.
Lilly nods. “Me too,” she agrees. “So does Mr. Bear.”
“We better get him some breakfast, then, before he gets grumpy, don’t you think?” I say, and she grins at me and nods.
She smiles and climbs down from my lap. She takes my hand as we leave the room, and we make our way down the stairs, both of us still weary from a restless sleep, but glad to be here. Together. In the kitchen I settle Lilly at the table, where she continues to color in the coloring book. The picture she has painstakingly been working on is almost complete. She ignores the blue crayon today, favoring the green one instead. I go through the cabinets and take out some of the flat pop, pouring us both large glasses of it, and then I go over to Lilly and hand her a glass. Our fingers touch when she reaches for the bubble-less drink, and we both stare in morbid fascination at the faint black lines that run down my fingers. I blink sadly, not wanting to feel sad today, but not being able to stop myself. I don’t want to die, but further than that, I do not want either of us to become the monsters that we fear so much.
I swallow and turn away, leaving Lilly with her drink as I go back to examine the cupboards while she colors, deciding on oatmeal made with water. I find a small jar of jam at the back of the many cans and packages, and I decide to use it to sweeten the blandness of the watery oats. I pull out the items, smiling as I do, knowing how much Lilly will love the jam.
My hand pauses on the jar as I think about the sweet red jelly within the confines of the glass. It exudes happiness, I decide. Lilly will like this breakfast, she’ll smile and eat happily, and things will feel normal and nice. I set to making the oatmeal, my smile fixed as I do. Because this feels good. I am a mother fixing breakfast for her daughter—a child coloring innocently. These things are simple and honest, but they are the things that you miss the most. Not expensive cars or sparkly jewelry. Not televisions and music. But the simplicity of how pleased a little girl will be to taste strawberry jam again.
I heat the oats and water on the small camping stove and when it’s ready I set the oatmeal down in front of Lilly. She stops coloring right away, setting her green crayon down and pushing the book to one side. She looks at the oatmeal and picks up her spoon, and then I place the jam in front of her and I grin. She looks at it for a long moment without speaking, and then her face looks up at me with a smile so bright it almost extinguishes the sun.
I grin wider as I open the jar, the loud popping sound as it opens makes her giggle. I spoon a large amount into her oatmeal and she stirs it for a long time, making it turn pink, but she seems hesitant to try them, to taste the pink goodness.
“Eat it now, Honeybee, or it will go cold,” I say on a happy whisper.
She looks at me with those big wide eyes that pierce my soul, and then she pushes her chair back and throws herself into my arms. I hug her tightly, another smile playing on my lips, and I kiss the top of her head, tears choking my throat. Tears of happiness.
“Come on, into your chair now,” I say. Because I don’t want to cry again today—not even happy tears.
I help her back into her seat and she picks up her spoon, eating the oatmeal with an excitable groan of delight. I watch for
My stomach growls loudly, disrupting the silence, and Lilly giggles and looks up at me once more. Her small rosebud mouth stretched wide into a large smile, her eyes are dancing, like a child’s should be. Not devoid of life and innocence, lost.
“I need a drink,” she whispers.
“I need to eat,” I say.
Lilly nods. “Me too,” she agrees. “So does Mr. Bear.”
“We better get him some breakfast, then, before he gets grumpy, don’t you think?” I say, and she grins at me and nods.
She smiles and climbs down from my lap. She takes my hand as we leave the room, and we make our way down the stairs, both of us still weary from a restless sleep, but glad to be here. Together. In the kitchen I settle Lilly at the table, where she continues to color in the coloring book. The picture she has painstakingly been working on is almost complete. She ignores the blue crayon today, favoring the green one instead. I go through the cabinets and take out some of the flat pop, pouring us both large glasses of it, and then I go over to Lilly and hand her a glass. Our fingers touch when she reaches for the bubble-less drink, and we both stare in morbid fascination at the faint black lines that run down my fingers. I blink sadly, not wanting to feel sad today, but not being able to stop myself. I don’t want to die, but further than that, I do not want either of us to become the monsters that we fear so much.
I swallow and turn away, leaving Lilly with her drink as I go back to examine the cupboards while she colors, deciding on oatmeal made with water. I find a small jar of jam at the back of the many cans and packages, and I decide to use it to sweeten the blandness of the watery oats. I pull out the items, smiling as I do, knowing how much Lilly will love the jam.
My hand pauses on the jar as I think about the sweet red jelly within the confines of the glass. It exudes happiness, I decide. Lilly will like this breakfast, she’ll smile and eat happily, and things will feel normal and nice. I set to making the oatmeal, my smile fixed as I do. Because this feels good. I am a mother fixing breakfast for her daughter—a child coloring innocently. These things are simple and honest, but they are the things that you miss the most. Not expensive cars or sparkly jewelry. Not televisions and music. But the simplicity of how pleased a little girl will be to taste strawberry jam again.
I heat the oats and water on the small camping stove and when it’s ready I set the oatmeal down in front of Lilly. She stops coloring right away, setting her green crayon down and pushing the book to one side. She looks at the oatmeal and picks up her spoon, and then I place the jam in front of her and I grin. She looks at it for a long moment without speaking, and then her face looks up at me with a smile so bright it almost extinguishes the sun.
I grin wider as I open the jar, the loud popping sound as it opens makes her giggle. I spoon a large amount into her oatmeal and she stirs it for a long time, making it turn pink, but she seems hesitant to try them, to taste the pink goodness.
“Eat it now, Honeybee, or it will go cold,” I say on a happy whisper.
She looks at me with those big wide eyes that pierce my soul, and then she pushes her chair back and throws herself into my arms. I hug her tightly, another smile playing on my lips, and I kiss the top of her head, tears choking my throat. Tears of happiness.
“Come on, into your chair now,” I say. Because I don’t want to cry again today—not even happy tears.
I help her back into her seat and she picks up her spoon, eating the oatmeal with an excitable groan of delight. I watch for
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