Haunted

I carefully whisk the batter in a large mixing bowl, ensuring that it becomes silky smooth and devoid of any lumps. As I dip my finger into the fluffy mixture and bring it to my mouth, the sweet, creamy goodness explodes on my tongue, evoking a smile that spreads across my face. At that moment, I realized how food really does soothe all of ones troubles.

Setting the mixing bowl down on the countertop, I turn to the cabinet, rummaging through the cookware until I find the heavy frying pan. I pull it out and place it on the hot plate, allowing it to heat up properly. With a knife, I carefully slice off a generous piece of butter and set it aside, eagerly awaiting the moment the pan reaches the perfect temperature.

Once the pan is hot enough, I drop the butter in, and it immediately sizzles and dances upon contact with the surface. The delightful aroma fills the kitchen as I swirl the melting butter around, ensuring the bottom of the pan is coated in a glossy sheen. Satisfied with its progress, I pour the batter into the pan, watching it spread out evenly.

I keep a close eye on the pancake as it cooks, the edges gradually turning golden brown. After a few moments, I expertly flip it over to let the other side brown to perfection, repeating this process until I have a delightful stack of fluffy, golden-brown pancakes that stand proudly on the plate.

I arrange the pancakes onto two plates, taking a moment to slice fresh strawberries, cherries, and blueberries in half. I artfully scatter the vibrant fruit atop the warm pancakes, finishing the masterpiece with a square of butter that gently melts into the layers. Finally, I drizzle a rich stream of maple syrup over everything, allowing it to soak into the pancakes and fruit.

I grab the two plates and make my way to the dining room, where I’ve already set down a jug of freshly squeezed orange juice, a basket of warm, crusty bread, and a plate of perfectly scrambled eggs.

In the corner of the room, Mia is engrossed in her phone, nursing a steaming cup of coffee in her other hand. The moment she notices me, she nearly drops both her phone and coffee, the mug dangerously close to spilling onto the table, her joy is palpable, and she shows no signs of concern for the near mishap.

“Mmm, gimme, gimme, gimme!” she exclaims with childlike enthusiasm, her eyes sparkling as she reaches out eagerly for her plate of pancakes.

I slide her plate in front of her and set mine down across the table, knowing I won’t have to wait long for her to dive into her meal. As soon as her fork pierces the fluffy pancake and she puts it in her mouth, she lets out an exaggerated moan of delight, clearly savoring every bite.

“You shouldn’t have wasted your time studying business administration; the food industry is where you were born to be, Alexia!” she declares with her cheeks stuffed full, a huge grin stretching across her face, which only makes me laugh.

“It’s just ordinary pancakes, Mia. You’re exaggerating,” I respond with a smile, taking a bite of my creation. The rich, buttery flavor melds with the sweet notes of the syrup, and as I chew, I can feel the comforting fullness settling in my stomach before the heaviness replaces it .

I rarely indulge in my cravings because, whenever I do, I end up feeling as bloated as a beach ball. The thought of it is so intense that I can already hear my mother's condescending remarks echoing in my mind, the ones she would probably use if she saw me giving in and eating something as simple as pancakes.

"You're going to be a ball by the time you finish eating," she would say with a look of disgust.

"Can you please not embarrass me with your weight?" she would add, her tone dripping with disdain.

"Why couldn't I have a model-thin daughter who doesn't need new clothes every few weeks because she's constantly gaining weight?" she would lament, her disappointment palpable.

As I took my second bite of food, the delightful flavors turned a bit bland .Overshadowed by the thoughts of my mother's voice. It felt as though her words formed a fog around me, making it hard to focus on anything else. I barely registered Mia's enthusiasm as she excitedly exclaimed about posting a picture of her meal on social media, while I was spiraling deeper into my torment.

Instead of enjoying the calm moment with her, my mother’s hurtful comments looped in my mind like a haunting movie scene. Each word was a stab to my heart, cutting deeper into my fragile soul. I felt like I was bleeding inside, as if my heart and soul were being shattered into a million irretrievable pieces. My chest felt tight; I struggled to breathe, unable to think clearly. All I could do was sit there staring at my food.

My mother's face has faded into a blur now , but her cutting words still burned brightly in my mind like acid, indelibly imprinted. "You're disgusting," echoed her voice. "You're ugly. You're worthless." Those phrases were like weights dragging me down, anchoring me in despair.

It always felt like I was drowning, being pulled into a dark sea of hopelessness. I desperately searched for a lifeline, but all I found was the overwhelming sensation of being trapped in a prison of my own creation, with no escape in sight.

I always entered a pattern with her , after every one of her lectures ,I withdrew deeper into myself for days. I lost my appetite, skipping meal after meal. Sleep became a distant dream; I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, trapped in my thoughts, paralyzed by my fears. I stopped living in any meaningful sense—I felt like a ghost, merely floating through life as a shadow of my former self.

My mother’s words clung to me like a dark cloud, haunting me at every turn. They taunted and tormented me relentlessly, a constant reminder of my perceived failures. I felt cursed, as if I couldn’t shake the weight of her judgment, no matter where I went.

Slowly, I began to sense that I was losing a grip on who I was. I felt like I was fading away into the abyss, slipping silently into an identity that no longer felt like my own. I was confused about everything—my desires, my ambitions, my self-worth. The only clarity I had was the deep, agonizing pain that became my constant companion.

I slowly come back to my surroundings and look at Mia, who is happily typing and snapping a picture with a forkful of pancakes close to her mouth.

As I glance at my own plate, an overwhelming urge to throw up overtakes me. I push my plate away forcefully, causing it to slide loudly across the table and nearly knock over my cup of juice.

"Are you okay, Lexi?" Mia asks, dropping her phone on the table to reach for my hand and giving it a gentle squeeze, her previous activity forgotten.

I had thought that making breakfast would distract her until I left her house, allowing me to continue avoiding her until I got everything sorted out. But I can’t stop myself from spiraling, even over pancakes. I’m doing worse than before, and sadly, I don’t know how long I can last like this.

"I think I’m going to make sure the kitchen is cleared. I know how you like your house clean," I say.

"Thank God for that, because you’re really lazy most of the time," I joke, trying to discreetly pull my hand away from hers.

"I’m going to make sure it’s squeaky clean," I add as I stand up, but Mia tugs at my hand, making me sit back down.

"No, you aren’t going to avoid me this time. I won’t let you," she says, and I can only sigh in response.

"Talk to me. I’m your best friend and your sister," she pleads, looking at me with such intensity that I feel guilty, making me nod.

"Good. Now tell me what happened with you. Is it because of David, or our boss?" she asks, and I break down into sobs.

"It’s happening again.”