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She wasn’t warm, was she? Not just her personality, no, but every damn thing about her. Her skin had a certain chill that wasn’t just stagnant. It emitted .
Ice, maybe, was the best comparison. No. That’s not right , in the same vein, but not perfect. She was a hoarder of all things icy, she wasn’t ice herself.
Things that are icy, you list them off in your head, going over and over and over the same things with a clinical distaste. The matriarch wouldn’t settle for being a brainless cube of chill, no, she would be something that does not cease unless broken. She’s ignoring you, of course she is. Why would anyone pay attention to their own spawn, their own egg? If she cared wouldn’t she freeze you for preservation?
You’re not useless to her, no. But you are cracked and lined with spots.
Hm, possibly she’s more akin to a refrigerator? No, that doesn’t freeze meat. The vegetables may chill and herbs may stay for longer, but the meat will go bad. The meat is the important item, it should not be wasted. Although, she doesn’t care much for it; caring would be freezing it, caring would not be throwing it into the first place she can plough it off to. If she cared she’d freeze it or she’d cook it. She doesn’t care .
She won’t do either, not with it in the refrigerator. It can rot, she likely decides so nonchalantly even you will one day be bewildered by her apathy, if she doesn’t throw the meat out the moment it begins to rot she will too. She doesn’t care.
Her insides will decay, oh no! Oh dear! She is the refrigerator, after all.
You will try to enter, but she is locked. Of course . Not a refrigerator, you suspect, but once your small body finally inches its way to that tiny crack, you are sure. Not a refrigerator.
She stays locked, remains as such even as that prancing little pansy comes in and begs for his cold, cold mother’s arms. She does not speak, and you do the same, not out of courtesy. Out of shame . You watch from your place atop the counter, higher than ever before. You do not smile, how unsightly, it’s a close thing however. Your mandibles twitch.
The fridge is but a freezer. She protects by hoarding, stockpiling a chill. Yet she remains oh so empty. Nothing will fit inside the gaping hole where others apparent a heart. She does not have one.
You begin to realise that the scent of decomposition is not from the house, but from inside; from her. Her disgusting, detestable flesh that wasn’t being preserved, wasn’t being consumed. Meat.
She wasn’t deceased yet, and that poof of a child still interacted with her like he could love a woman. The faggot.
It would certainly be tragic for the creature to pass, for that icy exterior to forcefully be melted. You are thinking, suspecting and arranging. She’s speaking, you realise.
That useless drivel directed at you, the idiotic one in resting. You wish to transform, for your bed to act as a cocoon, as a shield. Not to hide you, but so you can become beautiful and feast. Suck on her bones and devour her rancid, sour meat.
The ice monster keeps droning on, warm breath a juxtaposition to the chill that emanated from her vile figure. An inconsolable hag, you could possibly compare her to, but no. She’s frozen now. She’s glowing, or is the correct word glowering?
Whatever it is, she’s watching you back for the first time.
Maybe there should be joy, catharsis, but only if you can control yourself. You forgot they were even there; those spiky utensils silver and ethereal and glinting in the dark. You had burrowed for them, they were a pretty set, too pretty for what you ate with them.
Just good enough for the monster to falter, though. Just good enough to pluck out those beady, blue lights. Just good enough to make her look... appetising.
It would be gluttonous to feast, but you're a growing little freak. Your wings are only fresh and the satisfaction you receive from using proper etiquette is thrilling. Euphoric.
You open her. Her insides are not as desecrated as you thought they would be, her meat tinged by a simple umber, not the ebony you had expected. The imperfections still indicated the need for no cutlery, indicated that you needed to just use your pretarsi to tuck in.
Your hair still got drenched despite your best efforts, but when you pulled away and looked down, there was a moment. More than a moment.
Oh, dear.
Your mother is dead and you were the only person to blame.
Freak.