Jessica Hung Cen, Period 7, 3/1/22

 Jessica Hung Cen

Period 7

3/1/22

Modern Mythology 2022

I was born on a cold, winter night. The wind howled and the snow blanketed the ground, layers upon layers of white. When my mother went into labor, the storm became her warden; she could not go to the hospital. My father was at work that night, similarly trapped inside his office, leaving my poor mother to give birth to me alone for several painful hours. When my cries finally filled the room and she cradled me in her arms, she lit a candle. The first of many.

With every birthday I celebrated, my mother lit an appropriate number of candles matching how old I turned that year. I never questioned it since other families had the same tradition, but a part of me felt that this ritual was different somehow. Special. There was meaning to it but I didn’t know what it was. All I know is that each year, I felt a little warmer as an additional candle was lit. 

The year my mother lit ten candles for me, my family went to a sunflower field during summer vacation. Something caught my eye and I remember following it. I can’t remember what it was, perhaps it was an insect or perhaps it was a ball of light. Either way, it led me to her. She took my breath away when I first laid my eyes on her. I forgot how to inhale and exhale. Her eyes met mine, warm pools of honey in the sunlight. She greeted me and introduced herself, voice sweet (it was almost cloying) and melodious. I thought to myself, this is what love must feel like. 

When I finally remembered how to breathe, I smiled and introduced myself to her. Things were simple back then and we became easy friends. We played all day, hours passing before I remembered that I had to get back to my family. Hearing my parents’ worried cries, I stood up and told my new friend I had to go. Her face stretched into a wide smile that showed her teeth (why were they sharp?) and told me goodbye. After reuniting with my parents, I was met with angry concern. They asked me why I wandered so far, how I ended up a mile away on the opposite side of the sunflower field. I protested. I hadn’t walked for long before I met her! Ignoring their lectures, I tried to introduce them to the friend I just met. When we got there, however, she was gone. And it felt like she took my warmth with her. 

She left me shivering and I could not stop shivering until my birthday. As my mother lit eleven candles for me, it felt like I was finally pulled out of icy water. This warmth wasn’t enough. I needed more. I needed to feel the warmth of standing next to her. 

That same year, as if some god decided to take pity on me (they were tired of hearing my desperate prayers), she appeared before my eyes again. She transferred to my school and became my classmate. Once again, we fell into an easy rhythm. And that’s exactly how I would describe knowing her: easy. Talking to her, hanging out with her, loving her — everything came naturally to me. I was caught in her web, but I never wanted to be let go. 

The following year, I invited her to celebrate my birthday with me. With a bright smile and a honeyed mouth, she charmed my parents. The four of us formed a picturesque scene; a smiling family gathered to celebrate a birthday. When it came time to light my candles, she requested to do it for me. It was a new ritual for her, she claimed. After all, this was the first time she celebrated a birthday. Instantly, that caught my parents’ attention. They asked her when her birthday was, so we could celebrate it with her. “I have no birthday,” she said. 

Naturally, I replied, “Today can be your birthday, then. We’ll celebrate it together every year!”

That was my first gift to her: my birthday. My second gift to her comes in two years’ time. The year my mother prepared fourteen candles for me, she is once again present to celebrate our birthday together. As she entered through the door, my parents pulled her in for a hug and they gave her a kiss on the forehead. Her eyes (darker than the day I met her, dark brown like mine rather than honey) welled up with tears. Under my parents’ concerned gazes, she explained that she lost her parents. Knowing no other way to comfort her, I ignored the hesitant voice in the back of my mind and told her that my parents loved her like a second daughter. She could claim them as her own. I thought that I could simply make her my wife someday; she would call my parents “Mom” and “Dad” as their daughter-in-law. 

Three more years pass. Seventeen candles are lit. She is given a third gift, though I had no part in it. My parents present a prettily-wrapped package on our birthday. She opens it and finds adoption papers. Dread wells up in my stomach; this was not the way I wanted her to take my last name. I wanted to marry her and give her this part of me. Instead, she takes it from my parents. 

My parents explain to us that we’ve known each other for so long. To them, this naturally felt like the next step. Besides, we were so close that we were becoming similar anyways. They told us that we dressed similarly, spoke similarly, and had similar mannerisms. 

My father laughs, “Sometimes, I feel as if the both of you are the same daughter, split into two different bodies.”

I am cold once again, thrown back into the icy waters I drowned in when she left me for the first time. The candles cannot save me this time. They’re partly hers now, but it feels like she took the heat of all seventeen candles. I excuse myself from the party, feigning illness. They ask me what’s wrong, but I have no answer. While leaving, I glance back. The picturesque family has been reduced to three. 

On the day eighteen candles are lit, three things happen.

First, she calls me away, under the pretense of a private conversation. Still a fool in love, I follow her. Before I could ask her what she wanted to discuss, her hand plunged into my chest. In the split second before she ripped my heart out, I felt warmth again. Her hand was a warm caress, gentle and soothing, tamping down my raging feelings before they could even fully form. As I watched her bring my heart to her mouth (filled with sharp, sharp teeth), I could only think of three words. I love you.

Second, she finishes eating my heart. I lay there on the ground; my body cools. My spirit is still chained to earth (chained to her). I blink. She looks different. She opens her eyes, and I see myself staring back at me. 

Third, she returns to my her parents. They welcome her into the house, and give her a warm hug. My mother lights eighteen candles for her and my father wishes her a happy birthday. They do not ask where I am.