tamingthemuse | Prompt 122-Thirst-Buried Cosmos-tiaordona

Title: Buried Cosmos
Author: tiaordona
Prompt: #122-Thirst
Fandom: Harvest Moon: AnWL...me no own.

As dawn cracks the hefty, dark shell of night, my slumber lifts like a gossamer veil in layers. The pockmarked wood on the ceiling is my homely greeting to dawn, and then my senses are hit with breakfast. Bacon hisses against the skillet, frying eggs along with it. Their rich scent travels from the kitchen in a wispy trail of smoke, gracing warmth to my autumnal-chilled bedroom. Groggily, I rise…the sun catches upon my feet, and I see Marlin, raking the fields outside, bundled in a heavy parka and scarf, and home-knitted mittens. What was once a blossoming garden of fluffed greens and tomato reds is now a cruel mockery of such generosity, an ugly contortion of hard knots of mud. Amazing, how time can tears lacerations and stitch them back up, create wounds and so tenderly heal them.

Yawning and stretching the stiffness from my shoulders, I push open the door to the kitchen. There, my mother is busily hurrying herself among the oven and stove, her hair in its neat bun, her bulky cream sweater swallowing her thick figure. She eyes me through spectacle-framed eyes, fondness evident beyond the thin fringe of lashes, before offering me a plat of bacon and eggs, a smile on her plump face.

“Care for something to eat?” she asks sweetly.

Confused into speechlessness, I sit in the deep, cedar-carved chair an allow myself to be served. Finally, I can muster the questions from my throat. “Er, mom…not to be rude or anything, but…what are you doing here?”

She gives me a maternal smile with ice glinting behind it. I know this look all too well. My heart freezes with suppressed dread as I live a year through a minute. “Taking care of you,” she trills casually, setting a steaming plate at my seat with a small dulcet clunk of porcelain.

…Porcelain? Dear Goddess, did she unpack the dishes already? My stomach swoops like a preying hawk as I realize that my mother has set her place.

“Um, well…” I begin awkwardly, before grinding the crumbling bacon with my teeth to gift myself with time to think. The savory taste of meat explodes upon my tongue and crunches heavily. Mom had always been a fine connoisseur in foods, a preserver of the thick flavors of nature. Her bacon is fried to a wonderful border of crunchy and chewy.

Mom tilts her head inquisitively, as my thoughts fire off, and I finally realize that she is coaxing me onward. Wrecking my rambling strand of thoughts, I plummet back to earth. “Have you met my husband this morning? He, uh, is usually up before me.”

A crease folds indolently at her forehead. “Yes, yes, Marlin. He seems to be taking very good care of you,” she answers absently, pouring thick, fresh milk into a washed carton. I can’t suppress the tiniest smile, but I wilt at her accusing words. “Very good care, especially under the circumstances….”

The bacon and eggs churn and knead, and my appetite magically dissipates. My heart throbs, desperately delivering oxygen to my still stricken body. Then, I answer, careful to sidle past her strategy of deceit. “Yeah. Guess so.” As if outraged by its ignored presence, the creature inside of me twists uncomfortably. I clutch my stomach under the table, trying to maintain a grip on it without letting my mother on.

She arches a thin eyebrow at my behavior and leans forward, trying to get a glance at my grip. “Jill, what on earth?”

I roll my eyes, trying so very hard not to appear as exasperated as I am. “Please, mom. There’s nothing going on, it’s fine.”

There is something going on. There is something that pulls me close, something that yearns for care and needs my own strength and will to survive. A parasite. A blessing. A beautiful angel. A burden. And I can see, in the future, that its thirst for life to thrive upon will soon become its divulgence.

The door cracks open, letting in the frigid waves of cold air into the house. The heavy clonking of boots against the hard ground reverberate through the palpable silence, cutting through it as if it were a knife. My husband opens the door to the kitchen and smiles politely at my mother, then at me, his cheeks a harsh color of bitten pink. “Good morning,” he greets a bit shyly, stretching to reach the thin handles of the cabinet with a subdued struggle.

Mother presses her lips into a thin line as she eyes him with concentration, and my sublimity is torn apart by her intense gaze, her marauding stare. Marlin, bless his soul, tries to ignore the fact that he is being heavily inspected, but fails as he rolls from his tiptoes to his feet and rocks back to his heels.

But she quickly releases her glare as she realizes that he is going to stare right back at her until he finds out what he’s looking for. “Pardon me, dear,” she warbles sweetly, tucking a long, silver strand of hair behind her pointed ear. “I’m just thinking, is all. Have you had any breakfast? Feel free to help yourself.”

I want to burst out laughing as I eye his expression. It is one of utmost mystification. His eyes are two doubloons of wonder, and by just looking at them, I can already unearth the eyes of our child. I settle for scraping the chair out from the table and standing by him with a small chuckle, even though it is strained.

This is so awkward…

The world outside glazes over, and for a second, I forget that there is a home to heat, a field to till, and a farm to brace against winter. Looking out the window at the stationary, marble-gray sky, I silently plead for Marlin to vouch for this fact. And he does.

“Well, Jill and I have to go till the southern field, so if you’ll excuse us…” he mutters, grabbing my hand gently, brushing it with his, and releasing it as we pass the old woman. I can tell that she is still eyeing up Marlin, flailing for a lead on the kind of person he is. Impossible. Marlin is one of his own, completely unique.

“Ah!” I gasp quietly as the invigorating air sinks its demonic little fangs into the side of my neck. Even with a padded jacket covering me entirely, winter is more than present. Winter should already be here.

“Marlin!” I hiss quietly, and he looks at me meaningfully, handing me the lightest hoe he can find in the shed. “Marlin…how are we going to tell them about…” I clear my throat tactlessly, “the baby?”

He places an inquisitive hand on his chin. “Well, Jill. Your mother is definitely thirsting for some kind of knowledge…” I feel a stinging in my cheeks that isn’t related to the cold, until he raises his head doggedly. “We’re having dinner with Vesta and Celia tonight. And we’re going to tell them everything,” he states decisively.

That would most likely quench their tangible thirsts and leave them at that…and yet…and yet I fear that if I dare give drink to the ones who
beg for it, that poison would sting their throats.

I hope not. With all my heart, I hope not.