Work Text:
The morning sun was shining through the window, giving the kitchen a warm and pleasant atmosphere. The clean wooden countertops were yet to be used for the day, the freezer and fridge humming in unison, and the clock on the wall, which had been a gift from her mother, sang its familiar ticks and its toks. The smell of freshly brewed coffee was dancing in the air.
On the table lay a poorly crocheted tablecloth, one made in her many attempts to find an interest in the art. She wanted to throw it away, but he insisted that her time spent on it was important. Was it though? For her it felt like nothing else but wasted time and energy. They all had told her how they crocheted to destress. It was something to distract you from the daily routine that comes with being a wife. She often questioned how her friends found time for single row, most of them having kids closer to double digits than none. She used to wish for a life of pregnancy, she could do better than her mom, but now when watching that reality from afar she was glad they never had more than two.
A pillow, dressed with pink and brown petals, was resting on the chair she was seated on. The five other chairs wore matching ones. He had insisted that they would look great in their kitchen, that they would match their curtains. Meanwhile the sewing machine in her hobby room was gathering dust. He had bought it for her, together with some supplies, not long after she had asked for one. Her friends had been showing off the dresses they had made, and she had been filled with the inspiration to try as well. Uneven cuts, threads tangling, and a video tutorial on what the different stitches were used for. The imitation of a dress ended up in the trash after she got a needle through her finger.
The sound of an alarm going off on the floor above, making her aware of the time. Her daughters would soon join her for breakfast before heading to school. So she got up from her seat to prepare the table. Nothing fancy, some cereal and sandwiches were enough to satisfy.
As she opened the fridge, the dousens of recipes waved from where they hung with colorful magnets from their many trips. Spicy autumn stews to warm you up during the cold and wet season, meatloaf for those lazy days where you want to make something fast and delicious, chocolate chip cookies with ingredients no sane person keeps at hand, and a crispy strawberry salad. All recommendations from family and friends. With a smile she accepted the well written notes and made an attempt. But never when he wasn't home. She already knew she would drop the project on him in the end after all.
Being a single child, his mother had all the time in the world to teach him how to cook. But she was the youngest of 15. For years her brothers had been fighting for the undivided attention of a mother who had lost the ability to walk after the 8th and barely hung onto her sanity. The childhood which had been meant to prepare her for the life of a wife, were instead spent hiding kitchen knives in the basement and forcing a grown woman to puke after drinking cleaning detergent.
Not to mention, she kinda hated cooking.
Soon the kitchen was filled with complaints about today's math test, a song about horses and princesses, and of course, a little bit of bickering between the sisters. Mom, where is my ‘fuck the system’ shirt? It's in the wash, sweaty. Help me braid my hair mommy! Go get the brush then. Don't run up the stairs honey!
Goodbye and see you later, and as the door closed shut, the silence was almost deafening. She loves her kids, she loves her husband. But it was only when she was alone that she could enjoy her passion. She hurried up the stairs, double checking to make sure her husband had left for work. The coast was clear. She threw off her nightgown and grabbed one of his hoodies. It was big and comfy. A slight tinge of his cologne could still be sensed.
With bare feet on the carpeted floor, she sneaked into his office. It was neat and organised, he must have dusted it yesterday. Under the desk rested a computer, a quite powerful one. He rarely used it, home was for home and work was for work, in his own words. He preferred cooking and knitting. He liked to tidy up the home and decorate it with flowery curtains.
As she pressed the button the screen on the desk lit up, it sang a familiar tune and a logo appeared. Instinctively her fingers landed on the familiar keys, headset already fitted to her head.
She never liked crocheting or sewing. Cooking always ended in disaster and lemon scented WC clean made her feel sick.
Bloodsplatter and gore as bullets hit deformed creatures, shouting slurs and insults at her useless teammates, as well as the emotional highs or lows that came with victory or loss.
That was what Sue enjoyed.