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The baby’s crying again. The baby’s always crying.
He’s always asking for - Something? Everything? - With the only language he knows how to speak - in wails, in tears.
I pull the boy, who screeches until he’s red, out of her tired arms and into mine.
Even though she says so often, “You never help.”
“Shh, shh, shh,” My lips against the soft tuft of hair, its color matches my own, and my father’s, and his father’s, and his, and his, and his, and - “Shh, you’re alright, Scorp.”
He rubs his new skin against my old shirt - back and forth, back and forth, his small body relaxing as we walk in small circles - back and forth, back and forth.
“He never calms down when I-” She’s choking back sobs, her tears fill my mind. “I’m trying, and he doesn’t - he won’t take the bottle, he won’t relax, he won’t let me-”
I’m treading her tempest - placating, performing. “The medi-witch said it’ll take ti-”
A sharp laugh. She’s wounded.
An entire bloodline wounded - by my son, by me, my father and hers- “Ah yes, the medi-witch.” a hiss from her forked tongue, “You get on so well with medi-witc-.”
I’m drowning. “Don’t.”
The boy’s breathing evens against my neck, but I’m seeking air. “Go to bed, Stori.”
“Just admit it!” She’s begging - always begging for something - Reassurance? Adoration?
I’m not sure she knows which, but it’s all empty - I can’t give what I don’t have.
She’s awful. I’m awful, and so are our father’s and theirs and theirs and - “You need to leave.”
The moon is hidden behind clouds, my eyes need something full, something whole to rest upon, they drift to my son, now asleep in his crib.
“This is hell.” Her voice is thick with hurt.
Manipulation learned from her mother, and her mother’s mother.
I cast a silencing charm around my child. Mine, and never hers.
“This Hell-” I’ve no humor in my laugh, none left in my life. It’s all dark - the room, the magic, the night sky. “Is of your own making.”
I step forward, she steps backwards - a well remembered dance between people who should have never been wed. “I never wanted this. I never wanted you.” My native tongue, the language of a dying man - bitter, and spiteful.
Her chin wobbles, more tears fall - she’s so desperate to do me in, she’s been doing so for years. “I hate you.”
I can’t bear to look at her. She’s awful. I’m awful.
My fingers seek comfort, they wind into a silver curl that belongs to a sleeping boy who was shaped by a golden girl.
“I hate everything, except him... Especially you, Astoria."
