Chapter 1 - THE CARPET'S FEAST
Underneath a dark wooden dining table, a Caucasian baby girl with blonde hair wearing a yellow ruffled dress crawls on a patterned grey carpet, crying with food smeared on her face.
Above her, the crossed legs of a woman wearing a maroon dress and black high heels are visible.
In the background, a man in a blue shirt sits on a chair.
The camera is static, low-angle, capturing the scene from floor level with a shallow depth of field.
The grey carpet was thick, woven with stiff synthetic fibers that scratched against bare skin.
To the one-year-old girl, the floor was an endless, rough desert of geometric shapes.
Her tiny knees, covered only by the thin yellow cotton of her ruffled dress, dragged heavily across the abrasive fabric.
Her palms were flat against the floorboards, sticky with a cold, mashed substance.
It was sweet potato puree, long dried into a crusty orange paste.
The baby’s chest heaved with violent, wet hiccups.
Tears sliced clean, pale rivers through the grime coating her plump cheeks.
She reached forward with trembling, chubby fingers.
Her fingernails scraped against the grey carpet, pinching a small, crushed clump of green peas.
She brought the dirt-covered food to her mouth, her lips smacking desperately.
A sharp, jagged sob tore from her throat.
Just inches above her head, a razor-thin black stiletto heel bounced in a slow, rhythmic tempo.
The heel belonged to a woman sitting at the head of the dark wooden table.
The maroon fabric of her dress draped elegantly over the edge of the chair, completely unbothered by the weeping child below.
The shoe twisted slightly, the shiny black leather catching the warm glow of the chandelier.
It did not lower.
It did not shift to help.
It merely hovered in the air, a silent pendulum of absolute indifference.
In the blurred background, a man sat frozen in a heavy dining chair.
His blue button-up shirt was perfectly ironed, the collar stiff against his neck.
His leather dress shoes were planted firmly on the floor, perfectly still.
He did not look down.
The rhythmic tapping of the black stiletto was the only movement in the suffocating room, save for the baby’s frantic chewing.
Suddenly, the heavy oak doors of the dining room burst open.
The brass handle slammed violently against the plastered wall, rattling the framed paintings.
A woman in her thirties sprinted into the room.
Her blonde hair was piled into a messy bun, strands sticking to her sweaty forehead.
Her blue button-up shirt was heavily wrinkled, the fabric clinging to her racing heart.
Her rubber-soled sneakers screeched against the hardwood floor.
She dropped to her knees before she even reached the edge of the patterned carpet.
The impact sent a violent shudder up her shins, but she didn't blink.
Her hands darted under the heavy oak table.
Her fingers plunged into the darkness, grabbing the delicate yellow ruffles of the baby’s dress.
She pulled the child out into the light.
The baby whimpered, her tiny fists still clutching a smashed, dirty piece of carrot.
The mother’s breath hitched, a harsh, jagged sound tearing through the quiet room.
She grabbed a white linen napkin from the table, not caring about the silver ring holding it.
She pressed the soft fabric against the baby’s chin, wiping away the carpet lint and dried puree.
Her hands were shaking so violently she accidentally scraped the child’s lower lip.
She pulled the baby tight against her chest, burying her nose into the blonde, tear-soaked hair.
The mother closed her eyes, her ribcage expanding as she absorbed the frantic heartbeat of her child.
She squeezed her eyes shut, fighting the burning heat behind her eyelids.
She did not cry.
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She slowly opened her eyes, staring at the black stiletto heel still bouncing gently in the air.
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