Confound- Sergio
(TW: Past possible abuse, not really angst? Sergio thinks about things while his cream of wheat is cementing itself to the bowl.)
Sergio thinks about his mother, often.
It's hard not to when the years of a delicious, home-cooked meal have spoiled you. The rations and food supply on the ship, though not...odious, per se, but they're certainly not comforting. They're merely filling.
Sergio eats until he's full.
But he thinks about his mother when he's alone in the commons. Sergio spoons whatever bland and otherwise unappetizing food down his throat as he reminisces thinks.
Sergio thinks about his mother often, because he wonders just how exactly one goes about speaking to a ghost. She died months earlier. Sergio lost count amidst the shuffle. There's a part of him that feels bad forgetting she died, but there are parts equal in magnitude that happened to be glad she was dead. Relieved.
Happy.
And yet he finds himself nostalgic for a chance at the dinner table of his youth. His siblings were fighting, but it was different back then. There was no sneer, no cry or angst of discontent. Francesca would be scolding Dante for setting his elbows on the table. Nicoletta would be begging the housekeeper to let her go back to playing with someone she was sweet on- it was the neighbor next door. Sergio forgets his name.
Father was as cold as he ever was on the days he showed for dinner. Politics was his father's love; marriage was his duty. Sergio spoke little to his father. It was something Sergio never really knew he lost.
But his mother would be on the opposing side of the dining table, as discontent as one could truly be. There was always something off about the dinner- too hot. Too cold. Not enough. Too little. Cooks and maids never had much of a long stay in Sergio's childhood home. It's a wonder there was ever any hired help at all.
His mother complained and accused and judged. It was her style- being an editor of a newspaper means becoming a magistrate of mistakes.
And you were always guilty of the crime. Always.
But those simple moments were so easy. The food was delicious, the beds were warm, the showers were hot and in the evenings it was cool. Fireflies would light the garden, and Sergio would go to bed feeling better than when he did that morning. It was easy.
Harsh. Absent of parental love. Absent of time well-spent. Absent of any affirmation at all. But it was easy.
His mother was difficult. Cruel. But she was dead. And he was confused.
What was this feeling he felt, knowing that she was dead, and Sergio never said a word? What was this ache in the pits of his soul, that made him think of all the things he could've- should've, would've?- said, had he the chance?
That easy home life. This cruel batch of memories he'd rather forget.
The guilt of saying nothing. The freedom of not giving a damn.
Sergio thinks about his mother, often.
And he thinks about her alone, at the dinner table.