Post by Brahm van Tassel on Jan 13, 2024 18:17:18 GMT -5
The small kitchen, tucked away in what Agnes had disdainfully labeled the "servants' quarters," felt suffocating to Bram as he settled into his creaky chair. The flickering light from the fireplace cast dancing shadows across the worn Formica table, and the scent of the boiling pot hung thick in the air. Agnes, her tall and gaunt figure outlined by the dim light, carelessly dropped the plate before him. The crash of the dish echoed the bitterness that lingered between them.
Agnes's sunken cheeks and lifeless dishwater blonde hair framed a face etched with years of hatred. A thin ponytail hung limply, starkly contrasting the harshness of her hazel eyes. Dinner, a meager feast by their standards, graced the table with one chicken hindquarter leg, boiled potatoes, and a small salad. The luxury of chicken was a rare indulgence, a reminder of the scarcity that often defined their meals.
Bram's gaze lingered on the plate before him, the chicken's presence a haunting reminder of its once-feathery existence. The greens and potatoes, products of his meticulous gardening, were his contributions to their modest meal. He winced as he replayed the memory of Agnes, unfazed, beheading the deceased bird with a single swift motion in the yard. Their resourcefulness knew no bounds, even when it came to the source of their sustenance.
As they began to eat, Bram found himself unable to partake in the chicken consumption. His mahogany brown eyes remained fixed on the plate, a silent protest against the reality of their meager existence. Agnes tore into her portion with a primal ferocity, the sound of tearing flesh echoing in the cramped room. Bram's reluctance did not escape Agnes's scornful gaze.
"Do dagos' not eat chicken?" she sneered, her hazel eyes narrowing. "Do not tell me you're suddenly too good to eat it."
"No, ma'am," Bram replied evenly, lifting his gaze to meet the piercing eyes that regarded him. "Just paying my respects."
The tension in the room lingered, the crackling fire casting an uneasy warmth over their shared silence. In that moment, Bram felt the weight of his defiance, a quiet rebellion against the harsh realities that Agnes seemed willing to embrace.
Agnes's sunken cheeks and lifeless dishwater blonde hair framed a face etched with years of hatred. A thin ponytail hung limply, starkly contrasting the harshness of her hazel eyes. Dinner, a meager feast by their standards, graced the table with one chicken hindquarter leg, boiled potatoes, and a small salad. The luxury of chicken was a rare indulgence, a reminder of the scarcity that often defined their meals.
Bram's gaze lingered on the plate before him, the chicken's presence a haunting reminder of its once-feathery existence. The greens and potatoes, products of his meticulous gardening, were his contributions to their modest meal. He winced as he replayed the memory of Agnes, unfazed, beheading the deceased bird with a single swift motion in the yard. Their resourcefulness knew no bounds, even when it came to the source of their sustenance.
As they began to eat, Bram found himself unable to partake in the chicken consumption. His mahogany brown eyes remained fixed on the plate, a silent protest against the reality of their meager existence. Agnes tore into her portion with a primal ferocity, the sound of tearing flesh echoing in the cramped room. Bram's reluctance did not escape Agnes's scornful gaze.
"Do dagos' not eat chicken?" she sneered, her hazel eyes narrowing. "Do not tell me you're suddenly too good to eat it."
"No, ma'am," Bram replied evenly, lifting his gaze to meet the piercing eyes that regarded him. "Just paying my respects."
The tension in the room lingered, the crackling fire casting an uneasy warmth over their shared silence. In that moment, Bram felt the weight of his defiance, a quiet rebellion against the harsh realities that Agnes seemed willing to embrace.
