Memories of Anamesa

The sun's golden rays spilled through the window, casting a warm and inviting glow over my room. I stretched, feeling the stiffness in my body dissipate. My injuries had finally finished healing; I still had a scar on my chest from where I had been scratched, but my cast had been removed.

I clenched my fist, testing its movements. Tender, but functional. The terrible pain was almost a distant memory.

As I swung my legs over the side of the bed, a sense of anticipation bubbled within me. It was time to start moving forward, to make a difference. To become strong! I was determined to train, to improve my skills so that I could face whatever challenges lay ahead in my adventures.

As I swung my legs over the side of the bed, anticipation bubbled inside me. Today is the day.

I was done being weak. It was time to start moving forward, to make a difference. To become strong! I was determined to train, to improve my skills, and to prepare myself for whatever ridiculous challenges lay ahead in my life.

I leapt up out of bed, ready to take on the world....

-and immediately tripped on the wooden floor.

"F***!" I yelped, crashing down with all the grace of a potato rolling down a hill.

Lying flat on the ground, I groaned. "I can't believe I tripped on the floor."

I slowly pushed myself up from the cold, heartless floor, my dignity in shambles. My resolve, though shaken, remained firm.

I would become strong.

I would train.

I would....

"Oh Alex! Get in here!"

I froze.

Oh no.

I knew that tone.

...

I cautiously peeked into the main room of our house.

My mom stood in the middle of the kitchen, hands on her hips, eyes locked onto me like a hawk spotting its prey.

"Oh, good!" she said, smiling way too sweetly. "I thought I heard you. Since you're finally up and feeling better, you can help with some chores!"

I paled. "But-"

"No buts!" she clapped her hands, already pushing a wooden bucket into my arms. "Take this and go fill it at the well."

I looked at the bucket. Then at her. Then at the bucket again.

"...Mom. I almost died. I..."

Mom turned to me and stared at me. I shuddered subconsciously. 

"Oh? So you're still too weak? Oh, dear," she sighed dramatically. "Maybe you should go back to bed for another two weeks. Also, about your punishment for going into the wo-"

"I'LL GET THE WATER."

"Good boy."

Defeated, I grabbed the bucket and marched toward the door, shoulders slumped in utter betrayal.

The well was just outside the house, and as far as chores went, this was one of the easiest ones. But.

Water. Is. Heavy.

I hadn't realized just how weak I was until I actually tried pulling up the bucket.

"Hhgggnnn—" I grunted, using all my strength to crank the rope. The wooden pulley creaked in protest as I dragged the full bucket of water up from the well.

By the time I hauled it onto the ledge, I was sweating like I had just run a marathon.

"Okay," I panted. "One last step."

I grabbed my bucket, ready to carry it triumphantly inside... when the handle snapped off.

I watched in horror as the entire thing tipped forward, dumping all my hard-earned water straight onto my feet.

I stood there, drenched, betrayed by the very bucket I had trusted.

From somewhere behind me, I heard a very familiar giggle.

I turned, slowly.

Lily stood a few feet away, arms crossed, smirking. "Wow," she said, "such strength. Such grace."

I scowled. "Not a word."

She burst out laughing.

....

The next day, I tried again.

I woke up, determined to finally start training.

I got out of bed, avoided tripping, and stretched with purpose.

Today. Was. The. Day.

I marched out of my room, ready to begin my strength exercises—

"Oh, Alex!"

I froze.

Mom stood there, looking scarier than the wolf that had attacked me. She was already holding a basket of laundry.

"Perfect timing! I need you to wash these."

I stared at the basket. Then at her. Then at the basket again.

"…Mom."

"Oh, were you planning on going somewhere?" she asked, tilting her head innocently. "Well, lifting wet laundry is good for your arm. You wouldn't want it to stay weak, right?"

I opened my mouth to protest...

And then I caught her pointed look.

…I had no choice.

....

Day Three:

I woke up, steeling myself. She won't get me this time.

I tiptoed toward the door, fully prepared to sneak out before she could catch me.

I reached for the handle-

"Oh, Alex!"

I jumped so hard I almost fell over. She was behind me.

"How do you do that?" I gasped.

Mom just smiled, holding out a bundle of potatoes. "Take these to Mrs. Eliza's house for me."

I stared. "That's on the other side of the village."

Mom nodded.

I squinted. "This is on purpose, isn't it?"

Mom smiled wider.

....

Day Five: 

I tried sneaking out through the window.

I had one leg outside, when I heard:

"Alex!"

I nearly fell. I turned my head slowly.

She was standing in the doorway. Holding a broom.

"…Sweeping will make all your pain go away," she said sweetly.

I groaned.

....

Day Nine:

Lily had started keeping track.

"You know," she said, biting into an apple as she sat on a fence, watching me carry baskets of firewood across the yard, "I'm starting to think you're just meant to be a farmer."

I dropped the logs into the pile. "I hate you."

She nodded solemnly. "That's fair."

....

Day Fifteen:

I woke up before sunrise.

I was going to train.

No interruptions.

No distractions.

Just me, a quiet morning, and-

The scent of fresh bread.

I froze.

I turned my head slowly.

Mom was standing in the kitchen, kneading dough. Smiling.

"Would you like to help?" she asked.

I squinted. "…How heavy is the dough?"

Mom's smile turned victorious.

I sighed. "Pass me the flour."

....

Day Twenty-One:

Mom had officially beaten me.

I gave up on sneaking. Every time I tried, she caught me. Every time I argued, she had an excuse about how the chore would help me recover.

"You need to rebuild your strength!"

"Carrying that basket improves balance!"

"Sweeping builds endurance!"

It was foolproof.

And somehow…

I didn't feel as weak anymore.

....

Day Thirty-Five:

I was carrying a bundle of wood when I realized:

…I wasn't out of breath.

I wasn't struggling like I had before.

I looked down at my arms. Oh my gawd.

I felt stronger.

Wait.

My mother…

She had tricked me into training.

I stopped in the yard, staring at the logs in my arms.

Oh my god. Training arcs weren't supposed to be like this.