Oh, good! He’s looking at you again, those grey eyes of his washing over you, leaving you in grey silks, grey velvets, a stony granite crown laced upon your little lady’s brow. You don’t know quite what to do under his gaze, in all honesty. I don’t believe you ever will know what to do.

It’s a shame, really, how frozen you are under his gaze. He speaks, and you know it as speech and learn that, yes, things are supposed to leave your maw.  “Uwgh,” you say back to him, before learning (painfully, I might add) that you are not who he’s addressing. You listen to the color of your Mother’s voice, now that you’ve given her your attention (what an ungrateful welp you’re turning out to be; she nearly died to give birth to your accidental fetus, and yet here you are, barely noticing her existence). You listen to how low her voice is, how capable it is to be gentle, to be a Mother’s voice. Perhaps you’ll hold onto her voice one day as well. You do not know—you’re a baby aren’t you?

Sister has come up with a brilliant plot! You watch as she crawls (so strong, always strong!) toward your Mother’s teat, and it’s in that moment, watching your sister suckle blood and milk greedily, that you learn of your own hunger. And by “hunger”, of course we both mean the literal gurgling in your stomach, and not the searing ache that Paaaaapa’s eyes leave when they turn away from you. This rumble in your stomach is wet and disgusting, a natural cause, and it causes you to stumble your wet-legged gait closer to your mother’s side, stretching your short neck down to feed upon the surprisingly warm, surprisingly sweet liquid.

Oh, what a long day it’s been. What with being born and being very nearly slaughtered by the stone hooves of your great Father, it seems as though the milk that now stretches your belly’s edges has weighed you down even further, forcing you into a lull that droops your eyelids and makes your joints feel as liquid. There is no fighting against it.

You curl yourself beside your sister, tightly, as though trying to recreate the womb-room you two shared for so long. It’s not the same, but your baby-sleep does not demand perfection (unlike me). You yawn and your eyes flutter shut, and you’re asleep before you realize this will be the final time you allow your weaknesses to bare themselves so shamefully before your Father’s gaze. You must do well to have him forget you’re naught but a baby.