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As she opened her eyes, Seraphina saw a crass sight: the sun. It illuminated her room, reflecting off its magenta walls. She groaned and squeezed her eyes shut, then rolled over in bed. Her body felt sluggish because it was still heavy with sleep.
Seraphina pulled her zebra-print blanket over her head with another huff. She hoped it would block out the light. Her bed was a constant comfort. It was covered in soft blankets and pillows, which were easy to melt into. Unlike her Nonna, she valued design over quality. Her room was full of merchandise from her favourite series, regardless of whether the quality of the items was subpar. For example, the “tapestry” over her closet was a decorative throw blanket of Gir from Invader Zim.
Unfortunately, her bed wasn’t soothing her like it did at the end of a long day. She was restless. No amount of tossing, turning, or readjusting her sheets would let her fall asleep. Beneath the blankets, she could hear birds singing. So, she froze. They chirped and sang, much louder than usual.
Seraphina pulled the fabric off her head, squinting as her eyes adjusted to the light. Even without her glasses, she could see that her curtains were wide open. That’s why it was so bright. Her heart sank to her stomach as she realized that her window was also ajar. Quickly, she threw her legs over the edge of her bed.
Once her feet were on the ground, Seraphina surged forward and stumbled out of the room. Her dark brown eyes scanned the hallway and living room. Nico couldn’t be outside. She didn’t even want to consider it. Her fat, spoiled baby wasn’t an outside cat. He was too lazy! Their background led into the woods. His long, thick, black fur would get tangled in the brush. Not to mention, larger, predatory animals roamed around in there.
The air in the house was heavy. Although the windows were open, the smell of baked goods mixed with the fragrant scent of candles. Seraphina couldn’t pinpoint the details because her heart was drumming against her ribcage. She couldn’t breathe.
Instinctively, Seraphina’s hands flew to her ears. She squeezed her eyes shut, while she inhaled short, unsatisfying breaths. They didn’t fill her lungs. A distressed hum emanated in her throat. All her senses were overwhelmed. She blinked back tears before glaring daggers at the empty living room. Her body felt foreign and uncomfortable– as if it was no longer her own.
Instead of taking a deep breath of the contaminated air or blowing out the candles, Seraphina marched to her Mamma’s room. She threw the door open. Rosalia was sitting at her vanity; however, she looked over her shoulder to meet her daughter’s burning gaze. Seraphina released a strangled grunt, then pulled her hands away from her ears. They fell to her sides, her fingers balled into fists. Frustrated with her inability to speak, she stomped a foot.
“Oh, bella…” Rosalia mused. The wrinkles between her brows deepened, but her frown lines didn’t grow. She wasn’t mad; she was concerned. With a wave of her hands, Seraphina dismissed Rosalia’s sympathy. She hummed with frustration again, wishing that she could telepathically speak with her Mamma right now.
As Rosalia stood up from her chair, she gestured toward her bed. Seraphina’s eyes trailed the movement, locking eyes with a little fluffy face. Huge yellow eyes peered into her soul, and she gasped loudly. Nico wasn’t outside. Mamma’s window was merely cracked, and she’d presumably been keeping an eye on him.
A gentle sob wracked Seraphina’s body. She climbed into her mother’s bed, scooping Nico up. The worn mattress squeaked beneath her weight because the springs were old and out of place. Nico leaned into her manhandling and purred. She treated him like a Maine-Coon-sized teddy bear, yet he loved it.
While Seraphina was distracted, Rosalia slipped out of the room. She returned with a plate, which she placed on the bed. Two fresh, blueberry scones sat ready for her to eat. This time, the smell didn’t overwhelm her. It made her realize that she was, in fact, hungry. Rosalia Andretti was the type of woman who said the way to a person’s heart was through her stomach. She loved to cook and bake for her loved ones, including Nico the cat.
“Sweet girl,” Rosalia cooed in Italian. “What’s wrong?” The question echoed in Seraphina’s mind. What’s wrong? She couldn’t be serious. She’d not only invaded Seraphina’s room, but also hijacked her schedule. Seraphina had wanted to lie in bed and hide from the world, but no.
In response, Seraphina groaned. She tensed when she felt pressure on her shoulder and shuddered in discomfort. Rosalia took a seat at the edge of the bed, then ran a hand over Seraphina’s shoulder and upper back.
“Mangia, mangia,” ushered Rosalia. “Food will make you feel better.” In most cases, this advice was iffy at best. The association of food and happiness could be dangerous and was likely the reason both women were quite heavy. However, Seraphina couldn’t deny the fact that she was hungry.
So, she shifted and leaned on her elbow. The scone was still warm. It tasted buttery, full of flavour, and was very flaky. Rosalia didn’t flinch as crumbs fell from the pastry onto her bed. She was just glad Seraphina was eating.
Eventually, Rosalia climbed into bed with Seraphina and draped an arm over her daughter’s stomach. Usually, Seraphina couldn’t handle being touched when she was overstimulated. But right now, it felt… comforting?
Nico was pressed against her chest, and Mamma was warm against her back. The feeling of one hand over her stomach and another tracing her hip felt surprisingly safe. When Seraphina was born, the palate of her mouth wasn’t fully formed. She couldn’t eat, nor drink her mother’s milk because, with a hole in the roof of her mouth, nothing was stopping it from shooting right up her nose.
Maybe that’s why Rosalia favoured food as a love language. She could be celebrating the countless surgeries, paying off the thousands of pounds that had gone into reconstruction by making memories.
Once Seraphina had a chance to decompress, the reality of the situation dawned on her. Her stomach was full of good food, and she was in the loving embrace of her Mamma—who was muttering gentle reassurance.
She hadn’t been trying to spite Seraphina by lighting candles or sneaking into her room to open a window. She’d been trying to help and make the morning pleasant; it wasn’t her fault that it had backfired. Seraphina’s emotions were unreliable. Nobody could predict what would send her spiralling, not even herself.
So, Rosalia wasn’t upset that her daughter’s sensitive side got the better of her again. Her emotions were big and often disproportionate, but it was beyond either of their control. All Rosalia could do was sit by, keep her company, and not shame her for the way she felt. Patience was a virtue, and it couldn’t be used sparingly.
Bottling feelings, whether they were irrational, impulsive, or logical, was never a good idea. Sooner or later, the bubble would burst, and the result would multiply tenfold. Accepting help was a learned skill, and it was one Rosalia didn’t have herself. She’d been begrudgingly on her own since she got pregnant at 16, so she needed to instil trust in Seraphina.
With her dangerous mental health tendencies, it’d always been clear that Seraphina needed more support and help than most people. This led to a lot of apparent conflict. It was clear that Seraphina despised the idea that she was incapable of doing things like “normal” people.
However, she didn’t need to think about that right now. All she needed to focus on was being sandwiched between two living things that adored and relied on her unconditionally, as well as eating to her heart’s content. It was okay for her to be herself here.
Mamma and Nico would love her, even if she could never be the ideal Seraphina that lived out-of-reach inside of her head.