In her dreams, Clara was always revisiting Mother’s table.
Salmon, beef bolognese, garlic bread, clam chowder. Ever served in that order.
Muffled conversations round the table Clara would hear, only the sound of distant chatter but never their contents.
Mother and her boyfriend - he came and went according to the seasons - would be speaking in low dark tones. Sometimes furiously, sometimes despairingly. Never at her.
Not that she minded.
Clara would willingly be a deaf just to savour a little more the pink flesh of the grilled salmon, its crisp charred skin crackling in her mouth, or to see the steam that rose from the piping hot beef bolognese.
Perhaps not. She loved to hear the breaking of bread just before the pieces of toast were dipped into that creamy pool swimming with clams and potatoes.
And after that, fruit. A slice of honeydew or a small apple before the evening bell signalled bedtime. That was when Mother would tuck Clara into the pink duvet covers, kiss her forehead and close the room door behind her.
Until...
Until the door re-opened to a shadow of a hulking man under harsh blinding light...
Clara woke with a start, beads of sweat glistening on her forehead, with the bell still ringing in her ears. She used one ear of her grey Jellycat plushie to wipe away the stinging tears.
"Will you come back for me, Mother?"
Thanks to @shadowspub's word prompt on 8th May: fruit!
P.S. Image Source: Mak, Unsplash
May we all continue writing, on the
Hive! 💕
