Winter mornings in our home begin like a delicate lace veil spread across the world. The sky is a pale, noble blue, reminiscent of Mother's favorite porcelain tea set. Sunlight filters through the windowpanes, dancing with dust motes that look like tiny fragments of fallen star-stuff. Here, time flows with the rhythmic pulse of Father's antique clocks. Tick-tock, tick-tock... Each second is a quite melody, a gentle proof of our existence and our happiness!
I reach for my glasses on the nightstand and slide them onto the bridge of my nose. Instantly, the world blooms. Blurred lines sharpen; colors ignite. It's as if these two small pieces are magical keys that transform the mundane into miraculous.
I head to the bathroom to wash my face, the cold water feeling like a refreshing splash of morning dew against my skin. I hum a soft tune, feeling the smooth porcelain under my hands. I set my glasses down on the edge of the sink to dry my face with a fluffy, warm towel. The softness of the fabric feels like a cloud.
??? : "Eluned! Sweetie, breakfast is ready!"
The voice floating up from below is Father's—full of life, vibrant and warm. I spring toward the door and race down the hallway. As I descent the stairs, the scent of freshly baked bread—that warm, reassuring smell of home—fills my lungs. Entering the kitchen, the scene I behold is brighter than the most beautiful painting in the world.
Father sways aimlessly by the stove in a stained apron. When he sees me, he dons that famous grin. His eyes, there is nothing inside. Like a lightbulb burning in an empty room, it's just a reflection. He acts like a child because he is no longer "human" enough to carry the weight of an adult. He repeats the same movements like a software glitch. What he calls "life energy" is just the outward manifestation of the madness he's trapped in. When he tries to touch me, my skin crawls. There is the coldness of a corpse in those hands.
Mother is sitting at the table. It burns my tongue to call her "mother." She is a hollow shell. Less alive than a statue. Her gaze is nailed to the window, but she isn't watching anything; her pupils are simply programmed to face that direction. When I touch her, when I force a kiss upon her, the only reaction I get is the involuntary twitching of her facial muscles. She isn't smiling; she's just having a mechanical malfunction. Her silence isn't peace; it's absolute non-existence. No one is home. The house is empty.
And in the corner, that curses entity: Airesato.
She isn't my sister. She is an Eye. A camera. A judge. She stands in the room without even breathing, watching me without blinking, Airesato's silence suffocates me. She just watches; she doesn't answer, she doesn't need help. She just records this torture. Her presence flings the truth in my face: that she is a mere spectator to this hell. "Why?" I want to scream at her. "Why do you keep watching us in this loop?" But she just stands there. Like a dead god, she only watches.
Father : "Come on now, school time is approaching!"
Father says. The thing he puts in front of me isn't breakfast; it's just the mandatory fuel required to keep this show running.
The only thing I feel at this table is pure disgust. Father's moronic jokes, Mother's cadaverous stillness, and Airesato's silent gaze stabbing into my back... I hate you all. I hate this house, this smell, this winter. Outside, the snow—no, the white noise—continues to fall. The world is being deleted, and I am being buried alive in this erasure along with these three monstrosities.