“What’s wrong with the one I have?” You step down the row of captives watching you as you look back at them. Some cower from you, others throw themselves against the glass ferociously. Some get close to assess you right back.
“It’s a trade in program,” your mother says, gently urging you forward with a wave of her hands. “You get a new one that suits you better.”
“Why doesn’t this one suit me?” You turn back, away from the glowing souls shining so brightly. You look at the haggard expression of your mother, the way she wrings her hands, the way she smiles but it doesn’t reach her eyes.
“Wouldn’t you like a shinier, brighter soul?” She shrugs as if this is obvious. “Maybe one that glows and feels warm?”
You feel cold like an icy grip on your tailbone.
“You regret it,” you tell her, finally accepting. “You wish you had a child who wasn’t dark.”
“You can pick a different water soul if you want? Maybe one a little friendlier” Your mother is backpeddling, but it’s too late. She always wanted a happier child. A nicer child. A kinder child.
But she got you, and now she has to live with it.
“I don’t want any of these.” You turn to the soul seller. “What else have you got?”
“Nothing for you,” she says with a smile, ancient and wise and cruel after all she’s seen. “But maybe, I can find you a better mother?”
“I’d like to see the selection,” you tell her, and see your Mother’s expression become pinched. “Something nicer,” you say, “something more understanding. Something maybe a little less bright?”
“Hard to find anything less bright than her,” the soul seller chuckles, “but I think you’ll find something that suits you. Come. I have everything you need.”
“You love me,” your mother accuses.
“And you love me,” you reply, putting a hand on the glass of a soul who cowers away from your touch.
Then you follow the soul seller as she steps deeper into the abyss of her shop.
Your soul fits you: it’s your mother that doesn’t.