Chapter 9: The Creation of Adam
I'm sitting at the kitchen table, drowning in the surreal normalcy of it all. Mom's chicken parmesan, the ultimate weapon in her arsenal, sits steaming on my plate, the aroma of basil and melted mozzarella assaulting my senses. Even through the fog of self-loathing and confusion, my stomach growls. The first bite is a betrayal I can't resist. My taste buds lighting up like they're getting paid overtime.
"How is it, honey?" Mom asks, her voice dripping with that sugary sweetness that used to feel safe but now feels like a trap.
I can't meet her eyes, those piercing blue pools that have seen parts of me no mother should ever see. My gaze stays fixed on the red sauce pooling around the crispy edges of the chicken. Despite everything, I don't have it in me to lie about this.
"It's my favorite, Mom," I mumble, shoveling another bite into my mouth to avoid further conversation. "It's really good."
The fork feels heavy in my hand, each bite both a comfort and a punishment. How fucked up is it that after everything that's happened, after discovering what she does, after what happened in my bedroom hours ago, her cooking still cuts through my depression like a hot knife through butter.
Mom's watching me eat with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. Her eyes never leave my face, tracking each movement of my fork like she's memorizing the way my lips close around it. The silence between us stretches, elastic and dangerous.
"You know," she says finally, her voice light and casual, "I added something special to the sauce this time. Can you taste it?"
I hesitate, then take another bite, rolling it around my tongue. There is something different there, something I can't quite identify. It's familiar somehow, a subtle sourish flavor that cuts through the tomato and herbs.
"I'm not sure," I say cautiously. "It's different. Kind of... tangy? But good. Really good, actually."
Her smile widens, slow and deliberate, like a cat that's cornered its prey. "I'm so glad you enjoy it, Gabriel. I thought you might appreciate my... personal touch."
The way she emphasizes "personal" sends warning signals flashing through my brain. Before I can process what she might mean, she delicately dabs her mouth with her napkin and sets it aside.