I think she stopped smothering me when I was ten. Maybe it was because I just got too big to press down, maybe it was because I started asking. I remember very distinctly watching her, sitting very primly next to my bed, fluffing a large white pillow. I sat on my bed, watching my breath come out in a translucent fog.

“Mama, why is it so cold in here?” She paused, looking at me blankly, solemnly.

“Your fireplace is broken Sophie.” She continued to fluff. “Lay on your back.”

“Can I go to another room?” I asked as I lay down and smoothed the covers over my chest.

“No.”

“Why not?” She stared at me, sadly, exasperatedly. She finally spoke, with a metallic sounding voice.

“Sophie, baby, if you want to get better you have to be cured.” I looked her over quietly. I didn’t understand what she said, so I just stared up at the ceiling. She calmly held the pillow over my head, letting it press down on my eyelids. She smoothed it over my face, held the ends of the pillowcase firmly, and pushed down.

That was the first time I actually thought about it. The second time was a day or two later. Two days, probably, I think it was about every other day she smothered me. As always, I lay in bed and watched her fluff the pillow. It was the middle of the night this time, she looked tiered.

“Sophie, lay on your back.” I looked at her quizzically

“Mama, I’m already doing that.” She glanced up at me, her eyes blank.

“Hm? Oh, yes. I’m sorry, Mama’s had a hard day.” She continued fluffing, lifting the pillow up over my face. The word ‘mask’ stumbled into my mind briefly, although I don’t really know why.

“Mama, why are you doing this to me?” I watched her hands curl around the cushion.

“What?” the pillow hovered above my head like an ultimatum. I didn’t respond, just stared upwards. “What?” she repeated. I closed my eyes as tightly as possible. She hit me, and it didn’t hurt at first, just stung. “Why am I doing…?” She hit me again. I choked out and turned over on my stomach, shielding my head. “Why are you doing this to me Sophie!?” She brought her fist down in the middle of my back, and I choked out blood. “Why are you doing this to me?!” I didn’t respond, just curled up slightly. “You’re sick Dammit. You’re sick. That’s why-” she hit me again and my back made a cracking sound, but I remained speechless. “that’s why you won’t-” she hit me again, bringing her fist down like a judge his gavel “why you won’t work properly that’s why you won’t listen to me you ungrateful little- little demon. That’s why you can’t just be a good girl like your sister. You’re sick” her fist connected with my spine once more, and I bit my tongue until my mouth tasted like iron “and you won’t act normal and you won’t wear pink and you won’t listen to me.” She stopped hitting me in favor of placing her hands on the back of my skull and pushing, forcing my head into the mattress. I gagged, kicking out uselessly.

“Mama!” I moaned, stifled by the fabric, the blood in my mouth seeping into the covers. “Mamma stop- stop it!”

“SHUT UP!” She screamed, forcing my head further into the mattress “SHUT UP AND LET ME FIX YOU!” She broke off here, sobbing hollowly and honestly. “I want to fix you Sophie. I want to make you better.” she collapsed onto my bleeding back, weeping and clutching her head. “I don’t know what to do with you Sophie.” her voice cracked, and she covered her eyes, her stomach resting neatly over my middle, her arms on my left side, resting their weight on the bed. She shuddered “I just don’t know what to do.” I gasped in the oxygen I had been so dearly missing and cringed as my mother compressed my ribcage with her weight. Smothering was too personal. We both knew then that smothering was far too personal. She sobbed and I looked over my shoulder, incredulously, because I had never seen her cry like this. We stayed in that position for the longest time, her slowly quieting herself, me staring silently at her.

“Anstice?” She finally moaned out, leaning back into her chair, looking withered “Anstice, something’s happened to Sophie.” She stumbled out of her chair towards the door of my room, calling my father “Anstice Sophie- Sophie hurt herself again.” She glanced back at me, tiered, frustrated. I stared back owlishly. The next day she switched to poisoning.