Groggily, I wake up from a woman yelling out a girl's name. It sounds like Trish? Mim? No… Prim. My mother is yelling out Prim's name, again. I slide the cover off of me, so I can stand and stretch my aching muscles keeping mind of my hurt shoulder. Yesterday was a rough day hunting by myself. It is a rare occasion for me to hunt alone, but Mom was busy yesterday helping Dad through another episode. Dad having an episode is also infrequent. Because of this, Rye was also stuck by himself at the bakery all day.
Opening my door, I notice light streaming from the bottom crack of his door, obviously he awake because of the screaming like I am, but I don't hear any noise coming from his room. As fast as they can, my feet carry me down the stairs and into the kitchen when I put a kettle full of water on the stove; tea always helps Mom calm down. Boiling the water isn't much, but for Mom, it means less she to worry about. As soon at the kettle starts squealing, I pour the scorching hot water into a plain, white mug and place a lavender tea bag to soak. I silently thank Aunt Johanna every time we use this tea she sent a while back.
Mom's footsteps are always quiet, like the huntress she is, and I almost splash the hot water on me as I set the cup on the counter when she speaks. Both of us have this nasty habit of being too quiet when we do anything like walking around the house and accidently scaring whoever we're walking by.
"Thank you, Willow," she says, tired. I only smile in response, my heart racing from the slight scare she gave me. Mom places the warm mug between her hands and the steam gives her the oxygen to spark the fire inside her, waking her a little. "How was hunting yesterday?" She asks.
Internally, I groan. We weren't able to see each other yesterday since she went to sleep early so she can wake up early this morning to hunt. I didn't think she would ask me so soon about hunting; I was hoping she would inquire about it in a few hours when we were in the woods hunting.
I decide to not fully tell her the whole truth, thinking she wouldn't ask any more questions about the disaster that was yesterday's lonely hunting adventure, "It went alright. A few hiccups, but it was fine." I don't make eye contact so I pour myself a cup of tea as well to distract my eyes from my mother's piercing gaze, always knowing when I'm keeping secrets. I'm also distracting my hands from reaching my arms to scratch at the itchy, healing wounds.
Me thinking that she wouldn't ask any further questions failed. "What happened?" I can never keep anything from her.
Exhaling deeply I replied, "I tripped while I was tracking a deer down a hill."
"Are you okay?" I can still feel her examining me as I keep my eyes from meeting hers.
"A few scratches and no broken bones. I'm fine." I'm short with my words as I muster my small replies. I don't want her to see the damage.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, but I only brought like three squirrels to the Hob. They were still grateful for the meat, but I feel like such a failure."
"You are not a failure, Willow Rose," she only says my middle name when I'm in trouble, "there are plenty of hunters now. They probably brought meat as well."
I shrug in response, and we don't speak for a while. We are comfortable that way, basking in each other's company. I could still feel her eyeing me, though, and she finally speaks.
"You never wear long-sleeved shirts in the summer." My mother really does know me too well. My personality and physical looks, minus my eyes, is like looking in a mirror; I am a carbon copy of her.
"I got cold during the night. Is that a crime?" I know I am in the wrong becoming sarcastic with my mom, but pestering me about something trivial is annoying and I couldn't help snapping back.
"Willow-" her tone warning me to stop.
"Is it?"
"Did you get hurt when you fell?"
I did, and I should've been smarter than just thinking a shirt could cover my wounds.
"It's not a big deal, Mom."
"I'll be the judge of that. Show me," she demands. Sometimes, she is too overprotective.
She has now slid of her stool and walks towards me. As she advances, I slide my sleeves up. The damage is minimal but enough for me to feel the fabric of my shirt slide against my fresh scabs. I don't want to reveal any of my wounds to her, because it's embarrassing to show her what happens if I hunt alone. I want to prove to her that I can do it.
Her eyes squint as she takes note of the scratches especially the one that starts on the sides of my arms when I tried to stop my sliding.
"Take you shirt off, please."
"Mom, it's really not that bad."
"Now, Willow."
I do as she says, and I strip away from my protection.
"Have you put any sterilizing medicine on these," she asks as she gingerly inspects my wounds.
I tell her I did; she nods in approval. Mom turns over my arms to look at them closer. There is a gash on my shoulder that I couldn't medicate; I know she will make me spin around she can look at my back.
And she does.
My ears barely pick up on the sharp inhale when she sees the gash. "Willow, you may need stitches."
I don't need stitches. I don't want them either. "But it stopped bleeding. It's fine."
"I wish you hadn't inherited my stubbornness. Of everything I handed down to you that is one thing I didn't want you to have."
"At least you don't have both of your children incredibly stubborn." I earn a soft chuckle from her.
"You're not going to let anyone stitch it up, are you?" She asks and I shake my head. "Can I at least put something on it?" Another shrug from me is her answer.
As quietly and quickly as she came in the room, she leaves. I wait patiently in the kitchen in only my bra and sleep shorts. Now wouldn't be the time for Dad of my brother to come in here like they sometimes do to grab a late night or pre-breakfast snack. Fortunately, Mom comes back before I really begin to worry that they will. I'm not very modest, but I would be uncomfortable displaying my scrapes and gashes.
I hiss when she sprays my shoulder with an alcohol-based antiseptic. She mutters an earnest apology as she keeps spraying the spots she's missed. Is my wound really that large?
"I don't like hunting by myself. It makes me feel vulnerable," my mouth decides to spit without my permission. I always feel vulnerable around Mom; she's always the person I confide in.
"I'm sorry. If you don't want to, you don't have to," Mom replies as she starts to cover my gash with some bandages.
"I have an obligation, Mom. Hunting is what I chose to be my occupation."
"Sometimes, you do need a day for yourself and you know you are able to do so. You could always join Rye in the bakery if you don't want to hunt alone. Just because you chose to hunt, doesn't mean you always have to. People in the Hob aren't always there, are they? They have others to work in their place when they need a day off."
I nod in agreement, "And there are other hunters. We're not the only ones," I slide my shirt back on when she finishes administering the bandages.
"Yes, but you can't always have that mindset," when I turn around, she is smiling at me. A genuine smile from my mom is rare. When you earn a smile from her, you know that she has temporarily forgotten her nightmares and the past. You know that you were her escape even if it is for a moment. You know that she not only likes you, but that you made her forget. You know then that that is what she wants: to escape sometimes.