Fetal Dream

Wasn’t thinking of submitting to The Weekly Knob again, but I thought I’d use their prompt for these week.

Seimone wasn’t at peace, her mind was everywhere else. Her skin felt prickly, the sun spreading too close for comfort — seizing her with its heat and smoldering touch. She gets up from the position on the floor, only to curl herself into an infantile ball. Too many thoughts, too many memories. She wanted to have a day without any inkling of a worry — she wanted to be peace for a day.
 In her own journey for self-depreciation in the form of heated scolding — a day opens, it closes. There’s the sound of heels — the ignition of a gas stove, and finally the door to Seimone’s bedroom opening.
 “I’m back baby.” Seimone doesn’t look up, she takes in kisses on her neck and hands wiping the sweat from her forehead.
 “Mhmm. Welcome back. What are you cooking?”
 “I’m making some Buñuelos. I figured you were craving something sweet.” The older woman grins, crouching further down — her eyes glaze over Seimone’s dewy skin, and puffy eyes.
 “What have you been doing while been gone?”
 “Trying to become comfortable. It’s so much harder than it looks.”
 “I see. You look like you’re suffering. I’ll turn on the fan and head to the kitchen. You should join me.”
 Seimone nods, following her to the kitchen, dragging the hem of her white dress behind her. Sitting her chair, Seimone watches as she searches for ingredients. With a rolling pin in hand, she quietly rolls out the dough, speaking as she did.
 “We’re leaving at midnight. Make sure to have your things packed by then. If we’re late it’ll be trouble for the both, including the baby.” Although she aware that she didn’t turn to look at her, she nodded in a still understanding — Seimone’s position shifts, her head on the table, eyes watching the other woman’s behind.
 “I want to hear you say it — don’t nod.”
 “I understand Botan.”
 “Now, was it that hard?” Seimon’s eyes draw to the smell of sweet, fried dough, closing her eyes.
 “Yes, it was hard, very hard. Harder than you’d ever imagine. I’m not some princess that needs to be protected.” Botan pauses, with a bottle of cinnamon in her hands. She silently shuffles to her, with some emotional force. Her hands cupped her face and Seimone’s forced to look at her face as her head’s raised. Hazel eyes flicker with devotion and imploration.
 “I don’t want anything to happen to my family. We’ve gotten this far. I can’t afford to give in. We can’t afford to. I want you to understand me.” Seimone flinched as she listened to the despair and shakiness of her voice. The sound of Buñuelos sizzled in silence, Botan rubs away fallen tears from Seimone’s cheeks. 
 “Have you forgotten? Have you forgotten my promises to you?”
 Botan drops her hands, walking back to attend to the stove — Seimone, with shallow breathing, answers her.
 “How can I forget?”