-*| The Cursed World |*-

Chapter Six: I'm not that Hungry

(A couple days later...)

The next few days were like a blur. I don't remember too much from what happened somewhere between 8 and 10 days ago — Although I still do not know much of numbers or time.

There is a hard dark red scab on my face, and the back of my head still hurts. These are accompanied by smaller scrapes on my arm and a large bruise. I am just left wondering what I did wrong, so I can move past it, and not make the same mistake again. However, neither Mom nor Dad will tell me.

This feels like a complicated puzzle. I feel like my head is blocking what happened, like a way to protect me, I guess. I only remember bits and pieces; like hitting the wall. Not what I did to make me hit the wall. Just hitting the wall, like BAM!

Clover says it is good that I do not remember. She won't tell me, either. I usually see Clover as my happy older sister who likes to play games with me, or draw smiley-faces when our breath fogs up the glass.

Now, sometimes I'll see her be so silent on the bed. She reminds me of a wilted flower, with its petals wilted, and its stem, like a spine that keeps us all together, bent and crippled. I have never seen her be like this, or maybe I have just never noticed.

I ask her, and I ask her again what is wrong. She just tells me to "go to bed, Hebe." So I do. I can't help but worry and fuss about what happened.

If I could only remember, then I could help her. I would be able to be a better daughter to Mom and Dad. — Dad who won't even look at me, and Mom who now has to waste more of her time to cover up the cuts and bruises with some thing called concealer.

I sigh, and shake my head. This is stupid. I forgot, and I will only forget more, except those heavy lingering emotions; like a weight pulling me down to the dirt. This feels hopeless.

I roll over from my spot in Clover and I's bed. Again, I accidentally whack her. Clover scowls in a light way at me. I cannot help but notice that emotion lingering behind her bright eyes, like Mom's emerald rings.

"Come on," She pulls at my arm, "let's go to breakfast,"

Usually, we help Mom make breakfast. I find cooking quite fun, so I'm a bit unhappy when we are told not too. She told me she did not want my scabs and dirt to get into the food, which I don't really understand, but Mom is older and wiser, so she must be right.

Like we did the day Dad came home, Clover and I skip down the stairs. Now that we are moving, she seems happier, so I feel happier now too. I like to think of myself as an emotion-eater, because I usually feel happy or sad whenever someone else is happy or sad.

Some weight from what happened those 8 or 10 days ago is still dragging me down.

We take a seat at the table. I trail my fingers along the cracks and edges of our wooden table. It is usually really hard to get dirt out of these crevices.

Dad is sitting at the head of the table. He reads some newspaper. I kinda want to know what it is about. Whenever I get a chance to look at a letter, besides "C" and "H", they all just look like strange squiggles. Like these horrible dirty cracks on the table.

Mom sets down the plates, so I snap my head up. I am not too sure what it is. Some mysterious meat. I find a long, spindly gray hair in it and gag a little.

"What is the matter?" She asks me; her hand placed on the top of my chair.

I shake my head — "Nothing, I'm just... not that hungry."

"Not that hungry?" She scowls. It is loud enough that Dad looks up from his newspaper. "I made this meal from my own tedious work. Be grateful we even got this meat at all,"

I nod, and start to dig in. I look at Clover. She looks down at the meat a little horrified. I guess it is weird that we are having a steak for breakfast.