Diana

I’ve only just started working on the story. I don’t know yet where it will lead or what will come of it. Or if anything will come of it at all. What do you think?

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A light breeze gently swayed the curtains in the spacious kitchen, where, standing out amid the multifaceted interior, was an antique wooden table. It was bulky and completely out of place in the minimalist modern design, yet the owners of the house—and most of all, Valeria, the mother and wife—treated the table with reverence, as if it were a silent witness to all the turning points of her life. It was at this table that she once clenched her fists beneath the surface while her unfaithful husband, Diego, full of self-admiration and biting sarcasm, lectured her with a tone of weary disdain. It was here, at the edge of this table, a few months after Diego disappeared, that she began teaching Diana—the daughter who had suddenly appeared after that event, now eight years old—how to be a proper girl, especially in matters of housekeeping and loyalty.

Now, sitting at that same table, was John—her second husband, a quiet, calm man, with eyes full of the patient tenderness Valeria had so deeply lacked in her past life. He was turning a cup of coffee in his hands, gazing out the window while listening to the TV host’s monologue about yet another wave of world events.

— Mooom! — Diana’s voice pierced through the morning stillness, soaked with the cozy aroma of slightly burnt toast and freshly brewed coffee.

Valeria didn’t answer right away. She sighed, almost imperceptibly, as if something inside her had already known, and without turning to her husband, she called out lazily, almost slowly:

— I asked you not to shout across the house! Come here and speak like a normal person!

The silence that followed lasted a second longer than it should have. John set down his cup and looked at Valeria with slight concern, as if sensing that this morning held more than just a girl’s whims.

— No, you… you have to come, — Diana’s voice now trembled; it was no longer demanding — it was frightened, almost pleading.

Valeria stood up immediately, as if she sensed something, though she didn’t let it show. She walked out—not rushing, not panicking—but with each step carrying that sharp maternal anxiety that rises when a mother suddenly feels that something has happened to her child, something that will change them both forever.

She opened the door to Diana’s room—the same room she had once handed over to her daughter with a quiet sense of triumph, saying it was hers now. The room looked just the same: posters on the walls, unmade bed, clothes scattered across the floor… but Diana stood in the middle of the room, pale, holding a scrap of fabric… stained with blood.

— I… I don’t know what this is… — her voice was thin, uncertain. — It… came out of me. I didn’t cut myself, Mom, I swear…

Valeria pressed her lips together and stepped closer. Her eyes drifted downward, to the inside of her daughter’s thigh, and she understood everything.

— Oh, Honey… — she sat on the edge of the bed and pulled the girl close. — It’s okay. It’s your first period. Everything’s fine, sweetheart, I’ll explain everything. This… it’s just part of growing up.

Diana flinched. She knew what it was. After all, she wasn’t a little kid anymore. At 14, girls these days knew even more. But for some reason, she didn’t want to admit it. She didn’t want to admit that she was becoming a woman. But why? Why did it bring not embarrassment or shy curiosity like it did for her friends when they first talked about pads and bras, but instead a raw, primal fear?

She slightly pulled away from her mother, feeling how her swelling chest painfully reacted to the soft touch of her t-shirt fabric. For some reason, it felt too noticeable in that moment. Not long ago, she had been happy… or thought she was happy… that her breasts were finally growing. But now, she just grimaced and turned her gaze away, tugging at her shirt to keep the fabric from touching her.

— Hey, what’s wrong… — Valeria said gently, taking her daughter’s hand. — It’s okay, honey… it’s just… your body is growing. You’re growing up.

Diana was silent. Something inside her screamed the complete opposite, but she stubbornly couldn’t understand what it was. Her teenage, still-developing mind absolutely refused to accept the fact that she was growing up. At the same time, there was a clear understanding that this was it. She was finally becoming an adult. Finally free to do whatever she wanted. Free to follow her dreams without fearing punishment from her mom or scolding from teachers. But then why did everything inside feel so tangled?

— I… — Diana whispered, looking away. — I don’t want to grow up.

Valeria frowned slightly but kept speaking in the same tone, as if afraid to scare off something that, once awakened, would never let them rest again.

— Everyone says that at first… I remember thinking my body was just trying to drive me crazy, — she gave a crooked smile, looking at her daughter’s hunched shoulders. — But then you realize… there’s power in it too. A woman’s power.

The words hit the deepest, most hidden part of Diana’s consciousness. "A woman’s power." But what if she didn’t want to be part of that club at all? Especially with how much her stomach hurt now and that strange feeling running down her leg.

— I had a dream… — she breathed out, almost in a whisper. — A dream… There was a mirror. And I… I was… — she suddenly stopped, her mouth going dry.

Valeria froze for a few seconds. She was afraid of this moment. She had even forgotten it might come. Thought it would never happen. Everything had seemed fine.

— What did you dream, sweetheart? — Valeria’s voice rose half a tone as she grabbed her daughter’s wrist. She tried to hide her anxiety—and if it were an adult standing there instead of Diana, they would have noticed how tense Valeria had become. But it was only Diana—a frightened teenager—who now felt her mother gripping her wrist too tightly.

— Don’t squeeze so hard! — Diana yanked her hand back sharply, recoiling like a scared animal.

Valeria froze. Her fingers, still half-curled, hung in the air. Her breathing grew unnaturally even—the kind that comes when someone is trying their best not to show how much they’re shaking inside. She looked down, as if for a moment forgetting she wasn’t alone in the room, then raised her eyes again—straight at Diana.

— I’m sorry, — she said quietly, almost in someone else’s voice.

Diana didn’t respond—she just stood there, clutching her arms to her chest as if trying to shield herself from something large, heavy, and incomprehensible that had hovered over her since the moment she woke up that morning. There was something in her eyes now—something no longer childlike—as if, beneath the pink shell of a teenager used to hiding behind rebellion, a memory was waking up. A memory that wasn’t supposed to exist.

— He… I… — Diana stumbled, took a step to the side. — In the dream, I was in the mirror. I… I was looking at myself. It was me. A man. And it felt like if I just touched the surface, I’d become… — her voice broke. — What are these weird dreams, Mom?