In the kitchen

I sit at the kitchen table, my legs dangling like the vines hanging in our garden, and turn my nose towards the wafting scent of the crispy bacon and eggs frying in the pan held by my mother. I drum my fingers on the marble counter top, tapping to a beat much quite out of rhythm. My mother wears a red apron while she cooks. Its color flashes through my mind, reminding me of my own round face yesterday after school: bright, bold, bloody. Crimson bloody. 

A few scrapes here and there, and in one swift motion a hot plethora of fried maple bacon and sunny side up eggs slide onto my plate. My mother picks up the plate and sets it down in front of me, uttering not a single word. Uncomfortably I grab my fork and begin toying with my breakfast. I don't bother to scoop in food into my mouth, instead I poke at an egg yolk which bursts immediately, trickling its yellow soup across my plate. Even if I don't look up from my plate, I can feel my mother's eagle eyes trained on me, narrowing into slits as they pass over the swollen black eye on my face, the cuts and bruises that line my arms and neck. 

She pulls the chair across me and sits down. She remains silent still. The heavy atmosphere between us starts to weigh down on me, and no matter how hard I try to push it away, it always comes back in the form of my mother's gazing look of accusation. The strips of bacon underneath my fork crumble as I unduly spear each one with a heavy thought on my mind. How will I explain everything? The wounds, the black eyes, the blood that trickled down my pale lips----how will I be able to tell her? In the silence of the kitchen, only one answer swirls in my head.

I don't. 

* * * 

Meep. This is actually a rewritten version of a short story I made during Social. My classmate wanted me to write a story, so here it is. :)) Mehehe sorry if it's not too good, or way too cliche. Sinabaw kasi ako.