Chapter Text
A six year old Riza, beaming bundle of blonde hair and amber eyes wrapped up in a nice blue dress and flats, skipped along while holding her mother’s hand. They had traveled to the market to gather groceries for the week. While her mother was inspecting a farmer’s produce selection, Riza let her attention wander to the people bustling around her. She didn’t get to see other people all that often, so the market was the perfect place for her to observe others. One person in particular caught her eye – a girl, no older than fifteen, with short, dark hair. Riza was already enthralled by the length of the hair on her head, but became more fascinated as she noticed piercings lining her face, and clad in an outfit she thought reserved for men. Her eyes sparkled as she tugged her mother’s hand for her attention.
“Look! Look!” She exclaimed, pointing at the girl.
Her mother let out a dissatisfied groan. “Sweetie,” she started.
“Can I look like that?” Riza voiced innocently. Her hand was met with a light slap. The origin of the strike was her mother, who had a look of frustration that Riza hadn’t seen before.
“No! No, you do not want to look like that. That is not what a lady should look like, how improper.” Disgust dripped from her words like acid, burning into Riza’s skin. She did her best to transform her facial expression into one of love, and looked deep into Riza’s eyes. “You are perfect the way you are. Your long hair is beautiful and your dresses look lovely on you. It’s fitting for you, isn’t it?”
Riza didn’t know how to respond, her young mind stuck on the way her mother, her most trusted figure in her life, didn’t feel the same level of awe towards the market girl. She nodded, she stayed silent.
“Good girl.” Her mother said, running her fingers through the blonde strands by Riza’s ears. Good girl. Girl. That’s what she was, after all.
Her mother moved from stand to stand, in search of a decent deal with the remaining change in her pocket. She would ask Riza her opinion on a vegetable or cut of meat, ‘which of these do you prefer?’ Riza would shrug; she didn’t want to decide, to say one looked better than the other. What if she was wrong again? If she was going to be told what was fitting for her, or fit for purchase, she would rather have it be direct than in the form of a scolding. So she stayed silent.
With their haul in tow, the two made their way out of the hustle and bustle of the market, and back to the quiet countryside. They were passed by their neighbors on horseback (neighbors is a strong word… they lived miles apart, they just happen to be the closest surrounding people), riding both to and from town. They received polite head nods or waves, maybe a smile for the young one.
When they made it home, Riza’s father was there to greet them. To take the groceries to offload the responsibility from her mother. Her mother, who began coughing as soon as she entered the other room.
“Help me put these away, sweetie.” Her father called for her, and Riza stopped paying attention to her mother’s coughing. She nodded, and started grabbing items from their bag. After a few seconds of silence, her father awkwardly asked, “did you like the market?”
Riza nodded. She passed another item to her father, who put it in the fridge.
“What was your favorite part?” He asked a follow-up when he realized the silence meant her answer was complete.
She stopped for a moment to think. Truthfully, her favorite part was seeing that cool girl. Though, when she brought that to her mother’s attention, she was reprimanded for it. So she stayed silent. Shrugged. “The people.” She settled on; it was inconspicuous, not entirely untrue.
He scoffed, disagreeing in his head but not voicing his opinion. Riza still flinched, anticipating the next scolding. When it didn’t come, she handed the last item to her father and scooped up the bag. “I’m glad you had fun,” he said, and retired to the same room that her mother went into. The coughing had since stopped.
That night, as Riza was falling asleep, she heard a hushed discussion between her parents. It wasn’t enough to make out any words, but she knew the sound of wet coughing, even muffled.
--
Riza was invited again to go to the market. That was the fourth time in a row. She wasn’t surprised, her mother had been slowing down. Stumbling more often. Breathing heavier for mundane tasks. Looking paler under her makeup. Coughing up blood, as hard as she tried to hide it Riza could see. So she went along.
Again, after gathering that week’s haul, she was asked to carry the bag home.
“You’ll be married to a man one day and have to do this all on your own,” her mother said every time. “Or, alone until you have your own little Riza.” She would giggle and run her hand down Riza’s hair. Riza wanted neither of those things. Not to be married, not to have a child. She of course kept silent, because anything was better than being told what she had to do. What her duty as a lady was. A lady. She hated it.
--
Her mother hardly made it to the door. Handkerchief long since stained red, she stumbled to the old couch. Riza dropped the groceries inside.
“Get your father.” Her mother sputtered. Riza stared, wide-eyed, then ran up the stairs.
She looked first in his study, he was so focused on his papers that he hadn’t heard his daughter enter the room. “Father? Mother is coughing really bad.”
He wordlessly got up and ran to the stairs. She had hardly seen her father move this quick. She caught up, descending the stairs but careful to hit every step. Properly. Her father had her mother’s hand in his, pressed against his head. As she moved to the other side of the couch, her mother’s lifeless body came into view. She backed away. There was nothing she could say or do anymore. She tore her vision from her mother and grabbed the bag of groceries. She unpacked it into the fridge on her own, silent.