Fallon
Igor’s eyes follow me as Rebecca stirs something on the stove, her movements careful like she is afraid to move too quickly, while also simple and domesticated. A domesticity I never knew she possessed. The woman before me is a stranger wearing my mother’s face, and something sharp twists in my chest as I watch her hum while she cooks.
I shift in my chair at the island counter, wincing as my ribs protest. The bruises there are the deepest purple, blooming across my skin violently. Igor notices my discomfort and smirks. His massive frame blocks half the kitchen light when he moves, a human eclipse with dead eyes.
“Sit still,” he says, his accent thick and impatient. “No trouble.”
“Almost ready,” Rebecca says, her voice soft as she places plates on the table. Five plates making my
