Firenze lived in a world wrapped in gauze and glitter, a world where reality blurred and sparkled just enough to keep the darkness from swallowing her whole.
But perhaps that world was a delusion.
Or maybe it was a hallucination, carefully crafted by a mind too soft for the sharp edges of truth.
She remembered the day her father asked with a warm, hopeful smile:
"Do you want a little brother or sister?"
Firenze’s eyes lit up.
"A little sister, Dada! One I can play with!"
She had answered without hesitation, innocence blooming in her voice.
That night, the stars outside the stairwell window seemed to shine brighter than usual.
Maybe because, in her little heart, she believed her wish had come true.
But no one told her that wishes could come wrapped in pain.
---
"Mama, can I hold little sissy?"
She reached out with small arms, heart pulsing with awe and curiosity.
“No!”
The answer came like a whipcrack, not from her mother’s lips, but from the shadowed corner of her chest—rage and rejection born in a single moment.
“You have a fever,” her mother said coldly, hand firm as she pushed Firenze’s shoulder away.
“It’ll affect the baby.”
Shoved aside.
Out of the frame of warmth.
Out of the circle of care.
Firenze blinked, heart stammering.
"Won’t you take care of me too?"
"I have a fever. Doesn’t that matter?"
"Mama...?"
But no reply came.
Only silence.
---
Time passed like water, and slowly, the truth became impossible to ignore.
Her sister—bright, clever, beautiful, thin—was the favored one.
The shining star.
Firenze tried, clumsily, to gather the leftover light.
"Mama, please? That toy is just fifty rupees..."
A scoff.
"Can’t you see I’m taking care of your sister?"
"Why are you being so childish?"
The words struck.
But the real blow came moments later—when her mother, in a flash of exhaustion and rage, struck her back with a kitchen ladle.
Firenze folded into herself, into swollen skin and breathless sobs, curled in the corner like something discarded.
And still—
she wondered, “Why? How? What did I do wrong?”
---
By the next day, everything had returned to normal.
No apologies.
No scars visible to the naked eye.
But inside Firenze?
A rot had begun.
The favoritism grew clearer with each passing year.
Her sister was perfect. Praised. Gifted.
Firenze watched her get everything she asked for.
While she herself was handed only silence.
Maybe—just maybe—if even ten percent of that affection had belonged to her, she wouldn’t have learned to hate herself so deeply
.---
Note from the page no one reads:
Even after all this as time went by
Firenze never hated her mother.
She loved her—deeply, endlessly.
But sometimes, parents don’t realize the way their actions echo.
They don’t see the cracks their trauma leaves in little minds.
They don’t see how they teach their children to bleed quietly,
and call it growing up.
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Comments
Bé tít
Your writing is amazing and I'm dying for the next chapter. Keep up the great work and update soon!
2025-05-02
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