Break
Its poor pink face slowly turned red, swelling like a piece of red candy.
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A short story on the quiet and small rebellion of Being cast aside.
FIRE IN MY EYES
The splintered ends of the floorboards, frayed and bristling, were staring back at me. I had never seen my own handiwork look this harsh and full of character. As I swung my foot back and forth like a cradle, I almost let a small exclamation slip from my lips when I realized I was stepping on a creaking board. I kept my gaze fixed as low as I could.
From his voice, it was clear that the one standing in front of them was the “big man.” It was not difficult to guess from the shapeless form of the large shadow leaning over them. The shrill ring of his voice, rising now and then, was a sign of how angry he was, and how ready he was to explode at any moment. There was hardly any need to even notice the small man who never left his side. With his tiny, trembling shadow, he occasionally let out a weak, unpleasant sound, like a cough. Whenever he grew bored, he would always moan so pitifully like that. Just like our old Wolf.
In the house we stayed in, there were me, my little one, Berry, and my mother. We moved on the tips of our toes, our heads always lowered, living together without ever letting the “big men” sense the slightest stir. We would only go up to the upstairs room after the kitchen work was done and the cuckoo bird had sounded. I hated that bird. Once, I would have thrown the glass in my hand if little Berry hadn’t warned me. We all stayed in the same room. On some nights, my mother would go up to the attic. Her old shoes gave her away -if they could even be called shoes, they were more like wooden soles wrapped in cloth. Only I ever heard them.
I was responsible for the housework. Clean the floors, they would say, change the sheets, do the laundry… everything passed through my quick fingers that knew their work. Berry, meanwhile, followed behind me, copying whatever I did. Outside of work hours, she never let go of the rag doll I had given her. I had loved that doll dearly. It had been the only thing I truly owned in this life. I could never bear to part with it; I had even given it some of my own clothes. My mother had handed it to me first -she never said where she had found it. But once I grew older and was sent off to work, I left it in Berry’s care.
We only went outside to visit our dear neighbor, Ruth. Whenever our barren hens stopped laying eggs or our cow gave no milk, we would run to her. Once, she gave us a candle. I had run quietly back home to show it to my little Berry. Look, this is a candle, I told her, I’m going to place it on the sweet bread I saved for you. Her large, innocent eyes simply stayed fixed on the candle. I sat by the fire and lit it with great care. Then I lifted it and placed it on top of the tiny piece. The fire burning in her eyes kept growing, until at last it wavered, no longer clearly visible.
To avoid stepping on and crushing the splinter of the floorboard, I hooked one foot around the other. The light coming in through the door was making the middle of the floor gleam, right over my lowered gaze. In that brightness, a dark spot caught my eye, like a mole. I don’t like moles, in that regard, our Ruth really disgusted me. Pursing my lips, I looked closer at it and realized it was a tadpole. Who had come inside with such dirty feet? It must have been those ugly shoes of the little man -no one even knew where he got them from.
Pointed shoes, square shoes, or open-toe clogs. I hated the open ones. Especially those thin, crooked, dirty big toes sticking out. My favorites were the ones where two letters seemed to curl into each other inside the shoe. Ah, when I saw someone wearing them, I would think I wished there were a way I could touch them. Such beatiful taste! I couldn’t even stand seeing the big man’s sharp, pointed shoes. He wore them so often that the toe part had curled and shriveled, like an old man no one could stand. They also stank terribly; you would run away from him just for the sake of your own dignity. And when he lifted his foot, the poor thing would squeak and groan angrily, as if screaming. God forbid.
I used to wonder about the letters I saw, but there was no clever soul to ask. If the little man were there, he would play with every letter he saw without a second thought. Ah, if I had been in the little man’s place, they would never have listened to him as if he were a person. But thank God, when it was time for work, he would clear off, and I would not have to see that insect in the house. During work hours, what I heard most was the revolting sound of the big man’s shoes. Where he went, where he came back from -I could not even spell my own name, yet this much I knew. Most of the time, he would come crashing down from upstairs and, with a sound worse than little Wolf’s, howl in the kitchen before heading outside. Sometimes the racket came from the outbuilding, sometimes from the barn. Whenever that happened, I would not let little Berry leave my side, and I would spend the whole day beating the laundry with the washing block in my hand.
He took a step forward and stood in front of little Berry. He shouted at her, pressing the full weight of his shadow onto her, telling her not to go into the barn again to secretly feed Wolf. Then he began, as he always did, listing how he had nothing -how there wasn’t even a single bite he could give to anyone. After that, with a sudden heavy motion, I realized a shadow had fallen across Berry’s face. I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment, and when I opened them, I saw drops falling to the ground. I watched as one drop spread and grew, while one edge of it slowly began to dry.
Last year, I saw Egean, the beautiful girl who lived at the end of the street, crying like that. Oh, those beautiful coffee-brown eyes, lashes like black pepper grains, and the tears falling from them. As I reached out my hand, wanting to catch those tears, they draped a white veil over her head. God forbid, like she was dead. Terrified, I kept looking at that shape from time to time, watching her standing there like a wall. Was she even breathing?
I kept staring at the wooden floor until not a single trace remained. Then I saw the shadow move and noticed it was holding something in its hand. I strained my view a little, watching the object that felt strangely familiar. Suddenly, my head was pulled upward, and I realized it was my rag doll. The doll struggled in the creature’s hand, then suddenly went still. I could only stare at its smiling face as I watched it fly and fall into the fire. Its pink face slowly turned red, swelling like a piece of red candy. The dress I had sewn for it, its hem edged with lace, its body made from pure sheep’s wool, turned pitch black. Like those filthy ravens.
I fixed my eyes deep into the floor. I let every swallow passing through my throat gather thickly in my mouth. I shook my head to keep my eyes from reddening. Then, with an involuntary suddenness, I lifted my head. I looked at that unfamiliar face before me. I looked at the fire burning inside his eyes. That fire kept burning, until he turned his head away.
It was such an inhuman face that I gave thanks for having never truly seen it all this time. I fixed my gaze on its flat, empty eyes. I wanted to burst those strange eyes of his like a rotten egg. There was a darkness filled with a hatred and rage I had never seen before. First, he shrieked, then hissed. When he saw that I kept going, he screeched like a rotten, predatory animal. Then his gaze shifted beside me. I realized that our Berry, too, had followed my example and was staring back at him with her reddened face. And then, beside her, our mother’s grey face.
Before us stood the gleaming eyes of a wicked-hearted wolf. Then, behind him, a forest of little hooded girls appeared. The wolf knew his teeth well, but when the forest grew thick and dense, he shut his mouth. He let out one final howl, then fled back down the mountain to his den.
On the way out, he ripped the door off its hinges. The other followed, running after him. I rushed to the hearth at once and looked at what the fire had left behind, what was close to becoming ash, the remains of scraps of cloth. I reached out my hand and stirred through the embers, as though gathering the shattered pieces of a fallen vase. I caught them one by one in the air before they could hit the ground.
this is so amazing! I really appreciate finding stories like this to read and connecting with fellow fiction writers. keep writing! im so inspired by the way you so skillfully create detailed imagery in your words!
You rarely see fiction on Substack, so I’m really glad you wrote this one! And I will never tire of saying how much I adore your writing for make me so clearly imagine the worlds you paint with your words 😩 it’s so so beautiful!!