“Today is a very special day at Cappie’s! We have two soups of the day: tomato soup topped with basil and shredded mozzarella, or just plain ole chicken noodle soup. Which one will you be havin’, sugar?” the plump waitress smiles down at me. Tomato soup. The memory came stomping through my mind. I see it getting closer and closer. There is no fighting this memory. I take a deep breath.

****

   “How was your day at school?” my mother asked as I walked through the kitchen door. A strong smell of tomato soup swirled up into my nose. She stirred soup in an iron pot on the hot stove. I could feel the heat radiating off of it, but I was shivering - partly from the cold outside, and partly out of fear.

Why was she suddenly acting motherly? Last night, she exploded into my bathroom, ripped opened the shower curtain, exposing my naked body, took the shampoo and poured in down my eye sockets.

“THAT’LL TEACH YOU NOT TO USE UP ALL THE HOT WATER YOU WORTHLESS PIECE OF -” her screams were cut off by my step dad coming in and yanking her away from me. I cried as I rinsed the shampoo out of my eyes immediately and went straight to bed. I skipped dinner and cried until my eyes were completely wiped of any trace of shampoo.

“It was okay.” I answered my mother wearily. She continued to stir the soup. 

“Just okay? Why’s that?’ she questioned with nothing but a sweet, motherly tone lacing her voice. A tone that only kids with loving mothers would hear on a daily basis. A tone that I never heard.

“I didn’t get much sleep last night and I woke up late,” I answered, struggling to keep my voice steady. I looked down and realized I was clinching both my fists. I relaxed them and spread them out over my legs.

“Well, that’s your fault. You should be getting to bed on time,” she said, sweetness oozing out of her voice.

I stared at her. My fault? My fault for taking a minute longer shower than I usually do and getting punished by getting shampoo poured down my eye sockets? My fault for going to bed late last night because I was up most of the night crying? Or is it still my fault that every day is “just okay’” because I go to bed every night crying from something my mother has done that day? It’s my fault for having a mother that does nothing but spit hateful words at me? Anger grasped my rational thoughts and suppressed them.

“No, actually, it’s your fault.” I said. Before I completely finished my sentence, I regretted it.

My mother stopped stirring. Her eyes were still focused on the soup, when she whispered, “My fault?”

I didn’t reply. I squeezed my hands into fists. My nails cut into my palms. I stood there waiting for her to react. Her silence was terrifying.

She threw down her spoon, whirled around and looked me dead in the eye, “MY FAULT?” she monstered. I stumbled backwards, thankful the breakfast bar still served as a barrier between us.

Her crazy eyes bored into me. I stuttered, “No, I- I just meant that,” before I could finish -I saw it.

It happened in a single moment. The iron pot with boiling hot, red tomato soup was hurtling toward me.

I screamed as the hot iron smashed into my face, my head thrown back from impact. I went crashing to the ground. The hot soup came spilling over my body and drowning my face. My skin felt as if lava was melting over it. 

I screamed out in pain. I quickly sat up and tried to wipe the soup from my eyes, sobs escaping me against my will.

I felt hands pushing on my chest, forcing my body backward onto the floor – back into the hot soup. I pried open my eyes to see my mother’s face two inches from mine.

“I SWEAR TO GOD IF YOU DISREPECT ME EVEN ONE MORE TIME, IT’LL BE WORSE THAN SOME HOT SOUP!” she screamed. Her hot, cigarette breathe choked me. Another sob escaped me.

“DO YOU HEAR ME?”

I nodded through sobs, still feeling the volcanic soup boil my skin. She got up off me with a push and I heard her footsteps stomp out of the kitchen and into the garage. She slammed the door close. It shook the walls. I peeled myself off the floor and stared at the soup around me.

***

“Darlin’? I asked you which soup you’ll be havin’ today?” I am snapped back to reality by the waitress’s voice. I look up into her questioning eyes and reply, “I think I’ll just skip soup for today.”