Sofia moved in a trance, carrying objects much larger than a person of her size could carry. She was caught in the middle of control and uncontrol. The weight of the baggage dug deep into visible scars within her hands.
She winced, she suffered, and she yearned to scream. Yet all were kept in silence. She took her time, moving through the streets at a brisk pace that was halfway between running and walking.
She had left the busy streets and entered the back alleys of the Old District. Stone-paved roads turned into unkempt, muddy patches. Puddles grew in abundance, long neglected by the arrival of autumn rain. Housing that was occupied but exuded a sense of neglect.
A crow flew overhead. It's a wild, unkempt rage. A shiver echoed within the hearts below. The environment emits coldness, a cold that is not of the season but of the atmosphere, of despair, of neglect.
The girl stepped in a manner that was not direct, carefully navigating around the puddles with her tiny yet keen eyes. Watchful of her steps as she navigated the deserted streets. Around her, not a single soul can be detected. Yet whispers can be heard from the walls around, closing in as they centre around the navigator of the mundane, unnoticed streets of the Old District.
But not fazed was Sofia; blissful ignorance or pure unconcern masked her expression as she continued further inward, within the heart of the Old District. Her steps were almost dance-like as if she were skipping to a song, a rhythm she had hummed.
She navigated the secluded streets by twisting and turning. The little girl ignored the rotten smells and continued through the busy maze, and before she knew it, she had arrived at her destination. The handle was cracked, the door was chipped with an indentation, and a window was covered by a sheet of wooden board. The odd wooden planks covered the cracked walls.
Home. This is what she would call home.
Sofia's hands were full, so she lightly kicks the door open with one foot. The door handle doesn't lock; it never locks.
Walking in, a charred smell emanated from the barely illuminated fireplace and filled Sofia with a sign of relief. She puts her objects on a small, fractured table; sometimes Sofia even questions how it could still be functional.
Every step she took was done quietly and carefully, measuring the pressure to ensure the sound she emits is limited to a suitable volume.
She was sure to be quiet, almost silent, so as not to awaken the other member of the household.
Sofia carried her bag of groceries near the fire pit, where the fire was still barely ongoing, as evident from the smoke released from the wooden logs. The girl added some fuel to keep the fire burning, putting her hands to her mouth to direct the wind to blow at the fire, hoping to keep the warmth to a suitable and comfortable degree.
She huffed and puffed, and just from the corner of her eyes she could see a spark; the fire grew ever so slightly. But it was not enough, as Sofia's mouth ran dry. She grabbed a nearby cloth and fanned the fire to create wind, causing it to scorch even more.
A few moments passed before the fire gained momentum in a suitably comfortable manner. Sofia placed both hands near the fire, testing the warmth as well as treating her frostbitten hands. By the fire pit lay a few utensils: a wooden spatula, a big metal pot, and a pot resting station.
Sofia glanced at the grocery bag she had brought and looked inward. Hardtack, dry fruits, some herbs, and a bottle of wine… all crucial ingredients that would be vital for their diet.
Sofia carried the pot, which weighed almost as much as her available strength. Duped inside were the wine and hardtack. Yellow, sticky, and rich for hungry mouths, the ingredients combined into a strange gooey substance.
The girl carried the pot to the fire pit. Stir the ingredients slowly and carefully. Her dad had taught her that porridge is best cooked when it is continuously stirred to ensure all ingredients are mixed evenly. And the fact that "love" could be passed from the cook to the eater.
She, on the other hand, did not always believe her father, but she was willing to give it a try. Sofia continued the circular motion until a sound came, the bubbling and surfacing of air bubbles, a sign she was clear of.
Her eyes opened widely, and she hurriedly grabbed the dry fruit and herbs from the bag before throwing them into the pot. Sofia was filled with glee as she realised her timing was finally on point. Previously, she would always add the dry fruits and herbs too late or too early, owing to her lack of focus, but she finally applied the final ingredients at just the right time to avoid overcooking.
The giant spatula that was used to mix the porridge made it nutritious, satisfying, rich, and flavorful. Sofia couldn't hide the saliva dripping down the corners of her mouth. She licked her lips, not out of embarrassment but out of concern that she would have to clean up any mess she made.
Sofia gave a few more stirs, and the smell emitting from the pot sent her almost to ecstasy, exciting her in a manner like never before. Sofia, seeing that the porridge was ready, reached forward to grab the pot by the handles.
She was so eager, however too eager, that she forgot to put something between her fleshy hands and the scorching hot metal. Sofia bit her tongue in pain, flinging her hand rapidly, hoping to shake off that pain. She wished to scream and get something inside her to restrict this urge.
In desperation, she licked the unlucky fingers that encountered the hot metal pot. She ran around the house in circles, tears almost squeezing through the corners of Sofia's eyelids, yet no sound came.
Eventually, the pain subsided, yet an evident red mark was still left on Sofia's fingertips. But the pain reached an unbearable level, and with great difficulty, she carried on. This time she was careful and remembered to grab a piece of cloth to wrap her hands before removing the pot from the fire pit.
She dashed to a small compartment containing useful items, and her hands navigated the space before discovering two small wooden bowls. Sofia's hands scrambled in the compartment looking for some specific objects before retrieving another two wooden spoons.
Carrying the utensils to the pot, she filled them with her heartfelt porridge. carefully transporting the porridge from the pot to the bowls with the giant spatula. She was careful in the act, and she did not wish for any porridge to be spilled or wasted.
As she completed this task of filling and rinsing the bowls and setting them on a serving plate, she just leaned in close to the pot, savouring the flavours that filled her mouth, causing her to turn very pink. She tasted a little bit of the porridge still in the pot. ̀With a few careful stirs, she cleared the burnt smell from her nostrils. Another failed attempt, knowing the taste was not to her liking...
Yet, Sofia's spirit remained steadfast; she can always try and improve her cooking by trial and error. But she must make do with what she has made. She grabbed one bowl of porridge and carried it to the very entrance of a tightly shut room near the back of the house. Place the bowl next to the door on the floor.
Sofia was about to turn away to eat her fill, but something stopped her in her tracks as an uneasy feeling dwelled in her and her composure broke.
She walked back and tracked her footsteps back to the room. She gently opened the door just enough for her to peek into the room.
The room was no ordinary room, but a bedroom.
A bedroom for a special person within Sofia's heart
A fragile body lay dormant on the small bed. The person was pale, and her lips had an unnatural colour to them that would be a concern for anyone who would notice it. Her skin, which was normally a healthy tone, was now more translucent white than a typical healthy human colour, and her hair was significantly bleached.
The sleeping figure kept her eyes closed, while Sofia, who is barely an adolescent, appeared to have had her face peeking through the door. The dark, primitive walls and dim surroundings provided minimal comfort.
"Mother?"
Sofia's voice came through the door. It was calm, like that of a concerned peer talking to another. The frail body's eyes suddenly flew open, revealing yellow irises with white pupils just like Sofia's.
"Sofia?"
The frail figure replied, evidently shaken by the sudden intrusion of her subconscious daze.
"Mother?" the other repeated. She was still stuck in an unrecognisable state.
The mother strained to hear the words clearly, "Is that you, Sofia? What are you doing here? Don't you have school?"