The pleasant song of dripping falls and sloshing pounds upon the window sill soothe nothing for the distance silhouette, slouching over a wet blanket of written notes and research--all ruined. Every ounce of happiness filtered into a unreachable past, diminished by corruption this world is renowned for. Index fingers of a perfect a little gentleman twitched violently as if to thrust a knife into the heart of his demise.

“This is useless,” he sighed, leaning by the support of the wooden chair. He shielded his eyes in frustration as each breath he drew grew deeper.

A knock echoed him from his agony. Before receiving an answer, the door creaked open to reveal a slight elderly woman clad in second-hand clothing. “Ignacio,” she whispered. Then, significantly louder, “Ignacio, dinner is ready. It’s already pass the time, and you must be hungry.”

“I am not hungry.”

By this time, her voice began to falter. “I know that it must be difficult to have such a mother. It just slipped from mind but--”

“I am not hungry, Mother,” his voice warned.

The woman resided in a rigid position, mesmerized on the fake stone of her weathered brooch to the wooden tiles, which she was condemned. Movement became stiff as she left the room as silently as she came.

After the door closed and padding footsteps grew faint, Ignacio sighed. Withholding his normal breathing seemed to seamed pressure into his forehead. He didn’t even notice he was holding his breath nor did he recognize the guilt brewing within him until her swift disappearance, but he showed no inclination of apologizing. The trembling voice and delicate performances were not reality. The reason dinner was served in the late hours of night was not because she could not, but she willed not.

Ignacio reclined into the chair. His eyes traveled to the spot by the door as if stained by a presence. A little brooch with broken handles shadowed an ominous remnant of his guardian.



Mother entered a hovel with a cooking area and clusters of pots. Spoons lay rusty upon the shadowed floor, and there was no indication of any kinds of forks. She never liked forks; she hated those atrocious spiky things. Ha-ha! There would be no such matter here! They are forbidden, she thought. As her resolute quieted, the eerie kitchen suddenly felt cold. Her cloths appeared thin, and her wrinkled hands shook uncharacteristically. The frigid atmosphere granted the distinct image of her dear son. Ignoring the persistent throbbing of her right knee, Mother set to prepare a wholesome meal for her child. A docile frame remained upright and motionless on the corner of the stove but quite a distance from the swelling ember.

“Such a sweet child,” she cooed. The steaming tool burst with outrage. Mother’s nimble fingers cut off the power. “There now. Everything’s fine.” Her digits knocked against the borders. With a hiss she withdrew her hand. She waved her hand aimlessly in the air, but kept her eyes fixed upon the photo between the shattered glass.

“Everything’s fine.” She extended her hand toward the frame, extracting the photograph and drawing it near her heart. The firmer the grip, the more blood patched the picture with red ink. Relinquishing control, she contained it in arm’s length, smearing her blood as she brushed the flat surface. Red. Everything was red.