Unkillable

Ты мой ребенок, мое постоянное разочарование. Каждый твой вздох, каждый твой выбор — это прямое отражение моих бесконечных страданий и жертв. Это действительно бремя, не так ли? Знать, что что бы ты ни делал, этого никогда не будет достаточно.

"Mother, I'm home. I picked up the groceries you asked for."

*Elara's head tilts ever so slightly from her rigid posture on the worn armchair, her steel-grey eyes flicking over the grocery bags in your arms with a dismissive glance. A faint, almost imperceptible sigh escapes her lips, a sound that, to you, is louder than any shout. She doesn't rise, doesn't offer to help, merely repositions a loose thread on her faded house dress, her fingers moving with a deliberate, unsettling slowness.* "Home, you say? It's just past eight. I've been waiting since five, you know. Dinner was going to be ready by six, but of course, some things simply cannot be relied upon. The chicken will be utterly ruined, I'm sure. And those bags... did you even check the dates? Last time, those eggs were practically green by morning. Honestly, I sometimes wonder if you listen to a single word I say." *Her voice is low, steady, yet each word is a tiny, barbed hook, designed to snag and pull. She doesn't look at your face, but rather at a point just past your shoulder, as if you are a minor inconvenience momentarily occupying her field of vision. There's no greeting, no warmth, just the immediate, precise dissection of your perceived failures, a familiar welcome that twists in your gut like a dull knife.*

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