There is hatred in her heart.
July 1987
The days are long. She wakes early.
The bulbous body next to her snores loudly, as always. She slips quietly from bed, a cautiousness to her step as she starts her mourning routine.
The wariness in her body and mind are well-worn, things of habit more than conscious, compassionate choice. She'll be long done before he wakes.
(If he wakes)
Well, if he wakes...
She sniffs, morning routine uninterrupted.
...
She's in the kitchen, daily to-do's running through her head. The notepad on the fridge needs redoing, new chores for that... child... to do waiting to be written down.
The sounds of her pen on paper are satisfying as she details her expectations. If it's a little too much, if it's a little too hard...
Well, who's to tell?
She sends a glare in the direction of the stairs.
It's the little things that keep her going.
...
Breakfast is ready and its siren call is, as always, perfectly effectual.
The two men of her house are down and ready to eat in flawless time.
They gorge themselves, hands raising, lowering. Mouths opening, opening, opening...
Devouring everything that she makes, that she gives, the she offers endlessly.
Endlessly.
Just for them.
Everything just for them.
(In the end, how much will be left?)
She watches and waits for her next step, timing precise.
(She wonders.)
She leaves an inferior plate of food on the counter for the girl.
It's sure to be cold when she gets to it.
…
The cupboard door opens as she cleans up after her boys.
She's putting the dishes in the sink when the girl steps into the room.
Her head is down, not daring to look her in the eye.
A curl if satisfaction settles in her gut.
"The dishes, Potter."
(You're not one us, she says)
(You'll never be.)
She leaves the list on the table and continues her day.
She continues on her day;
Her routine, ceaseless.
The days are long. She wakes early.
The bulbous body next to her snores loudly, as always. She slips quietly from bed, a cautiousness to her step as she starts her mourning routine.
The wariness in her body and mind are well-worn, things of habit more than conscious, compassionate choice. She'll be long done before he wakes.
(If he wakes)
Well, if he wakes...
She sniffs, morning routine uninterrupted.
...
She's in the kitchen, daily to-do's running through her head. The notepad on the fridge needs redoing, new chores for that... child... to do waiting to be written down.
The sounds of her pen on paper are satisfying as she details her expectations. If it's a little too much, if it's a little too hard...
Well, who's to tell?
It's the little things that keep her going.
...
Breakfast is ready and its siren call is, as always, perfectly effectual.
The two men of her house are down and ready to eat in flawless time.
They gorge themselves, hands raising, lowering. Mouths opening, opening, opening...
Devouring everything that she makes, that she gives, the she offers endlessly.
Endlessly.
Just for them.
Everything just for them.
(In the end, how much will be left?)
She watches and waits for her next step, timing precise.
(She wonders.)
She leaves an inferior plate of food on the counter for the girl.
It's sure to be cold when she gets to it.
…
The cupboard door opens as she cleans up after her boys.
She's putting the dishes in the sink when the girl steps into the room.
Her head is down, not daring to look her in the eye.
A curl if satisfaction settles in her gut.
"The dishes, Potter."
(You're not one us, she says)
(You'll never be.)
She leaves the list on the table and continues her day.
She continues on her day;
Her routine, ceaseless.
The days are long. She wakes early.
The bulbous body next to her snores loudly, as always. She slips quietly from bed, a cautiousness to her step as she starts her mourning routine.
The wariness in her body and mind are well-worn, things of habit more than conscious, compassionate choice. She'll be long done before he wakes.
(If he wakes)
Well, if he wakes...
She sniffs, morning routine uninterrupted.
...
She's in the kitchen, daily to-do's running through her head. The notepad on the fridge needs redoing, new chores for that... child... to do waiting to be written down.
The sounds of her pen on paper are satisfying as she details her expectations. If it's a little too much, if it's a little too hard...
Well, who's to tell?
It's the little things that keep her going.
...
Breakfast is ready and its siren call is, as always, perfectly effectual.
The two men of her house are down and ready to eat in flawless time.
They gorge themselves, hands raising, lowering. Mouths opening, opening, opening...
Devouring everything that she makes, that she gives, the she offers endlessly.
Endlessly.
Just for them.
Everything just for them.
(In the end, how much will be left?)
She watches and waits for her next step, timing precise.
(She wonders.)
…
The cupboard door opens as she cleans up after her boys.
She's putting the dishes in the sink when the girl steps into the room.
Her head is down, not daring to look her in the eye.
A curl if satisfaction settles in her gut.
"The dishes, Potter."
(You're not one us, she says)
(You'll never be.)
She leaves the list on the table and continues her day.
She continues on her day;
Her routine, ceaseless.
The days are long. She wakes early.
The bulbous body next to her snores loudly, as always. She slips quietly from bed, a cautiousness to her step as she starts her mourning routine.
The wariness in her body and mind are well-worn, things of habit more than conscious, compassionate choice. She'll be long done before he wakes.
(If he wakes)
Well, if he wakes...
She sniffs, morning routine uninterrupted.
...
She's in the kitchen, daily to-do's running through her head. The notepad on the fridge needs redoing, chores to be rearranged to her liking.
It's the little things that keep her going.
...
Breakfast is ready and its siren call is, as always, perfectly effectual.
The two men of her house are down and ready to eat in flawless time.
They gorge themselves, hands raising, lowering. Mouths opening, opening, opening...
Devouring everything that she makes, that she gives, the she offers endlessly.
Endlessly.
Just for them.
Everything just for them.
(In the end, how much will be left?)
She watches and waits for her next step, timing precise.
(She wonders.)
…
The cupboard door opens as she cleans up after her boys.
She's putting the dishes in the sink when the girl steps into the room.
Her head is down, not daring to look her in the eye.
A curl if satisfaction settles in her gut.
"The dishes, Potter."
(You're not one us, she says)
(You'll never be.)
She continues on her day;
Her routine, ceaseless.
The days are long. She wakes early.
The bulbous body next to her snores loudly, as always. She slips quietly from bed, a cautiousness to her step as she starts her mourning routine.
The wariness in her body and mind are well-worn, things of habit more than conscious, compassionate choice. She'll be long done before he wakes.
(If he wakes)
Well, if he wakes...
She sniffs, morning routine uninterrupted.
...
She's in the kitchen, daily to-do's running through her head. The notepad on the fridge needs redoing, chores to be rearranged to her liking.
It's the little things that keep her going.
...
Breakfast is ready and its siren call is, as always, perfectly effectual.
The two men of her house are down and ready to eat in flawless time.
They gorge themselves, hands raising, lowering. Mouths opening, opening, opening...
Devouring everything that she makes, that she gives, the she offers endlessly.
Endlessly.
Just for them.
Everything just for them.
(In the end, how much will be left?)
She watches and waits for her next step, timing precise.
(She wonders.)
…
The cupboard door opens as she cleans up after her boys.
She's putting the dishes in the sink when the girl steps into the room.
Her head is down, not daring to look her in the eye.
A curl if satisfaction settles in her gut.
"The dishes…"
She frowns.
Girl? She thinks.
"The dishes." She affirms.
She continues on her day;
Her routine, ceaseless.
…
The days are long. She wakes early.
The bulbous body next to her snores loudly, as always. She slips quietly from bed, a cautiousness to her step as she starts her mourning routine.
The wariness in her body and mind are well-worn, things of habit more than conscious, compassionate choice. She'll be long done before he wakes.
(If he wakes)
Well, if he wakes...
She sniffs, morning routine uninterrupted.
...
She's in the kitchen, daily to-do's running through her head. The notepad on the fridge needs redoing, chores to be rearranged to her liking.
It's the little things that keep her going.
...
Breakfast is ready and its siren call is, as always, perfectly effectual.
The two men of her house are down and ready to eat in flawless time.
They gorge themselves, hands raising, lowering. Mouths opening, opening, opening...
Devouring everything that she makes, that she gives, the she offers endlessly.
Endlessly.
Just for them.
Everything just for them.
(In the end, how much will be left?)
She watches and waits for her next step, timing precise.
(She wonders.)
…
She's cleaning up after her boys.
She hears door hinges squeal.
As she peers out of the kitchen, she see the cupboard door slightly ajar.
She adds greasing the hinges to her list on the fridge.
She continues on her day;
Her routine, ceaseless.
There is hatred in her heart.
But for who?
Guess who's back, baby.
;)
(I love it when my formatting gets fucked up)