She is always sick. Mother always finds some way to be sick. Sometimes it is the rain, or the flowers blooming, and sometimes it's the bright June mornings that hurt her eyes so. But I fling open the door and face the world. I shout, “Here I am! Here I am and I am not my mother!”
Mother whispers in her hoarse voice to come back inside and stop being so foolish. She says the sun is burning her eyes, come back in and shut the door you stupid child. I never obey immediately, but I know that if I do not Mother will turn on poor Father and he will come after me.
Father never fights with Mother. Sickly Mother gets her way with poor Father. He lost the light in his eyes many years ago, the comforting light I always looked for as he rocked me on his lap. He has no will now, no strength. Like Mother. Only Father's sickness is in his eyes... the fever has killed the light in his eyes... He is blind to all hope. Mother doesn't think I'd understand. But I do.
I feel sorry for Father's sickness. But not for Mother's. She is always sick, but she still has a light in her eyes. Not a light like Father's, though. Father's was a soft, gentle glow, like a lighthouse beaming over the treacherous sea, searching for the poor lost souls caught in the dark and giving them something to look to for peace. Mother's is more like a fire. It burns into you when it reaches you, and destroys everything unlucky enough to be caught. It destroyed Father's lighthouse.
“Child,” Mother calls to me. “Child, what are you doing? Fetch me my medicine you filthy excuse for my daughter.”
I slowly lower my playthings and walk toward the kitchen, watching my hooves as they make that smacking sound each time they touch the hard floor. Child is my name now. It used to be Applejack and before that it was Little Apple. Now it is Child.
My eyes travel from my hooves to the bottom cupboard, to the funny mark that looks like a face with a huge mouth and its eyes too far apart in the wood, to the handle and I reach for that handle. I reach for it and my hoof touches the cold surface. Cold like Mother's hooves. I pull it softly at first, but when it refuses to open I kneel down and pull some more. When it flings open I almost lose my balance, but I don't. I didn't let myself squeal either, because if I did, I know Mother would call to her filthy Child again. She would make that scratchy sound with her mouth, the sound that makes me want to claw at my ears until it goes away.
I hear a small noise and see two glowing eyes inside the dark cupboard. A scampering body races away from my hideous face, my blob with slanted teeth and a pig nose and beady eyes that Mother says I must've gotten from my father's side. I must've because Mother's side had never seen such a shameful thing. I reach out my hoof to show the mouse I am nice. But it turns away and hurries toward the corner. I let out a breath in disappointment but suck it back in quickly when I realize it's heading straight for the cheese Mother had covered in rat poison.
It's so skinny and starving that it doesn't smell the poison. I turn away before I can see what I know is coming next, the terrible positions the mouse's body will convulse into as its last sensation is terrible pain. I turn my attention back to the task I have been given. I cannot find the small bottle with Mother's medicine so I dig deeper. I move the boxes inside around until my eyes catch the horrible image of the skull and crossbones warning of poison. I grab the shiny green box and turn it toward me. Rat poison.
The cause of my would-be mouse friend's death. I violently shove it away and find Mother's bottle. I start to close the cupboard but stop when I feel a little pin prick in my mind as an idea is painfully formed and the green box reflects the dim light.
I rise to my hooves and fill a cup with water so Mother can swallow her pills. I turn and hear the smacking sound again as my hooves lead me to my mother's bed.
“There you are, Child. Why did you keep me waiting so long you rude thing? Did you get caught in your childish fantasies again? Never mind, give me that bottle.”
I give her the bottle and the cup of water and hurry back to the kitchen. Wet tears leave my cheeks cold as I see the dead body of the mouse, now still and peaceful. I lower my body to the ground and run a hoof along its dirty fur, its flesh still warm.
Here I am, I say in a hushed voice. Here I am and I am not my mother.