The Trials

House of Peace

     I stood off to the side of the door, allowing Wilbur to pass forward. He closed the door behind him, speeding over to the oven. His daughter gave me an uninterested glance, peering down at a coloring book that was on the floor. She picked it up along with a pack of crayons and set it onto her lap, filling in a picture that I couldn't see.

Wilbur put his hands on the handle to the oven, then I saw his head droop down slightly. His actions paused, and I walked over to be just a few feet away from him.

"Wilbur?" I called out to him, tilting my head to try and see his face.

There was no answer.

"Daaaad!" The little girl called out from where she sat. I looked over to her again, only finding that she was still coloring into her book.

Wilbur's head finally perked up again, turning around to face me again after cutting off the gas to the oven. The light blue color in his eyes had returned, although this time more dominant than the brown.

"Did something happen?" He asked me with a confused look, eyebrow perking up. Wilbur's hand stayed rested on the handle of the oven, leaning a dangerous amount of weight onto it.

"Your head dropped and you stopped moving while trying to take out whatever is in the oven," I replied, my voice lacking emotion despite the sudden spike of curiosity in my head.

"Dad, you're getting the chicken out of the oven." The little girl reminded him. She still hadn't set the table like he had asked, instead now putting down her coloring supplies and skipping over to Wilbur's side.

Wilbur looked down at the girl, gently patting her head and moving her away. He took out a pair of oven mitts, opening the oven, and then taking out a large tray of chicken cooked with potatoes, sauce, and a small amount of lamb. There was a generous amount of garnishes and herbs cooked on top of the food, which created a mouth-watering aroma in the air. The little girl waddled over to a cabinet under the sink, swinging it wide open and taking out a multitude of little animal bowls.

"Thank you, sweetie," Wilbur thanked her, taking off the oven mitts and setting them to the side. "So, Delma, where are you from?"

Fuck.

Zamiga hadn't planned for that question to pop up, despite it being the most obvious one that would come up in a conversation.

"Where are you from?" I tried to reverse the question right back to him.

"I was born in Fort Worth, Texas. As of now, we are in New York, the United States. Now, where did you come from?" He answered, then repeated the question with an unwavering commanding tone.

If I had to be honest, I didn't know the answer, but Other Me did. It's sad that I don't know where I come from, I know. Over the years, I never had the need to fully remember everything, because Other Me would remember the important details.

'Thea?' I called out to her in my head.

No answer.

'Thea.' I chimed again.

Still no answer.

"Well?" Wilbur insisted, pushing me to answer the question. "Where did you come from?" The question rang again. I don't know how he was being this patient with me, and my confusion on the matter seemed to reach his senses.

"I don't know!" I retorted, looking away with furrowed brows and a strong amount of guilt. I felt guilty that I didn't care to remember before. Guilty that such basic information was alien to me. Guilty that I couldn't even remember-