I awaken in my bed to tear-soaked pillows and sweat-laden sheets. Looking blankly at the ceiling, I rub the wetness from my face, unsure why I’m crying. Another nightmare, I suppose.
Still, unlike every other morning I wake from my nightmares, there’s a growing, burning sensation clogging my chest. It’s a sadness that floods me, spurring more tears. I try to ignore it, to ward against the feeling, but the pain is too potent. It’s pure acid corroding my defenses, tearing open fissures and seeping through. And I don’t understand why. Why today? Why, after months of numbness, am I suddenly thrust into the agony of feeling?
It’s been a daily struggle to keep thoughts of the Wildflowers at bay. If I don’t think about the loss, the associated pain is prevented.
A weight settles around me, making my morning tasks slow and grueling. Getting out of bed proves extremely taxing. Brushing my teeth is like lifting a one-hundred-pound dumbbell. Even walking down the stairs takes too long.
I don’t bother with breakfast.
A warm cup of coffee awaits me on the island, and I grip the handle before heading to the table, as I’ve done every morning since arriving here. And as always, I’m alone and in complete silence. I have no idea where my parents are and I don’t care.
I haven’t spoken a word since someone from Sacred Heart came by shortly after I was brought back here. And even though it was months ago, I remember it as though it was just yesterday.
“Hello, Chloe.”
I stare blankly at the woman in front of me. Her gentle tone and concerned expression seem genuine, but I don’t trust her.
“My name is Patricia and I’m the director of Sacred Heart. I’ve come to see how you’re doing after everything that…happened.”
Her eyes dart in the direction of my father, but like me, he remains silent. He holds her gaze for a brief second, then turns to me. He’s angry. Bothered by her presence. And he blames it on me.
Of course it’s my fault. It’s my fault she’s here. It’s my fault my parents had to take me back. It’s my fault I lost all of my friends, that I’m right back where I started. Alone, abandoned, inconsequential.
Patricia clears her throat, then looks back at me. “I read the medical report from the night of the fire. You were fully examined?”
I nod slightly, bringing my knees to my chest. I feel my father’s glare when my feet rest on the leather of the chair, but I keep my eyes locked on Patricia.
“How did you receive the head injury?”
My heart rate spikes at her mention of that day. I don’t want to answer any more questions. It was all I could do to hold it together then. I may not be as successful this time. I inhale deeply, but my voice trembles when I speak. “If you read the report, then you know I tripped and hit my head on the way out of the house.”
She gently folds her hands in her lap before responding. “Yes, but I wanted to make sure you weren’t injured otherwise.” Another quick look at my father before she meets my eyes.
I don’t have it in me to lie, so I don’t. I was injured in ways no one could possibly understand. Except the Wildflowers.
She sighs, but her tone remains calm. “I’m very concerned, Chloe. I hope you can understand that. I need to know what happened so I can make sure it doesn’t happen again. The Duffs…well, the report said they left you alone for days and we still can’t locate them. I cannot get over what my gut is telling me, which is that something else was going on while you were in their care. While you were in our care. Is there anything you can tell me that would help me understand? Any idea of where they could be? Where the three other residents may have gone when they left?”
I grit my teeth in frustration and shake my head. My bare feet hit the floor and I stand, eyes locking on to hers. I need to know without a doubt she hears what I say. “This is what I will tell you. You should have stopped by to see how we were coping with the loss of Mrs. Rodriguez. You should have let Sally stay when she asked to be our caretaker, and you should have gone so far to ask us what we wanted. We deserved to have a voice.”
My throat is constricted as I speak, but I get the last bit out before it starts to slam shut. “And you should have definitely told your inspectors to talk to the children alone while visiting the home, and not just rely on the information provided by those they’re there to inspect.”
Patricia shoots to her feet, offering me her hand in the process. “Chloe, I’m so sor—”
I step away from her, dismissing her attempt, then say, “There’s nothing else you can do for me. The damage, as you already know, is done. Maybe you should focus on the other children you placed in the care of those monsters, the ones you didn’t protect who are still suffering in silence. That’s the only way you can help us now.”
My father rises, but of course, says nothing to comfort me.
I look into Patricia’s eyes a second longer, noting the tears rolling down her cheeks, then turn my back on her and leave the room.
Not one word spoken since then.
I’ve completely shut down so I don’t have to remember. So I don’t have to feel. But with that one memory, the ones I’ve been trying so hard to deny become inescapable.
Unimaginable pain and coldness.
Lukas’s agonizing scream.
What did he see?
Adam’s cries of torment.
He saw it all.
And Genny…
She…
My heart clenches every single time I think of her limp body in Adam’s arms.
Where are they? How are they? How is…she?
I have no way of knowing.
The only point of contact would be Sally, but her phone number burned along with the house. Not that I would contact her, because that would mean I’d have to actually acknowledge everything that happened. And until this moment, I’ve been somewhat successful at avoiding that.
But as I sip my coffee, I’m frustrated I haven’t heard from her. That she has made no effort to reach me, to check on my mental status, to talk me through the tragic events of that day.
I’m not her responsibility anymore. None of us are, I guess.
But it hurts.
She was right. She didn’t have it together.
Newfound anger sweeps through me, heating my blood and warming my cheeks. It’s odd to feel this emotion, any emotion, after so many months. But this morning, I welcome it.
My thoughts veer to Lukas, the most difficult to shake when it comes to evading my memories. His abrasive demeanor in the beginning versus the kind soul he was shielding inside. His tortured expression when he opened up about Michelle. His need to protect her.
His need to protect us.
Which he did.
Absently, I twist the plastic ring I still wear on my finger and trace the scars lining my arms, remembering his plea to never cover them.
“You have nothing to be ashamed of. These scars are a part of you that should never be denied. They’re your battle scars, and they should be worn with pride. When I look at them, I don’t see the mark of a frightened girl, but of a warrior. I see someone I strive to be.”
He still left me.
What about his scars?
My heart aches. They may not be visible like mine, but after what happened, he undoubtedly bears some now. What did he see?
I think of Adam and his beautiful face marred with gaping cuts and swelling bruises. More scars, both inside and out. I hope Seth is with him, helping him heal.
And Genny. The girl who once wore her scars with pride. Who worked so hard to bring me back to life. Again and again I see her limp in Adam’s arms…but mixed with that memory are all the times her fuck-you-all attitude inspired us, claimed us all. But I fear what the evil did to her that night.
Around and around my mind goes, thinking of Sally, Lukas, Adam, and Genny, each revolution crumbling my defenses.
By the time I finish, I ache all over and my heart hurts. I have no idea how long I’ve been sitting at this table, but my coffee cup is empty, and I have no memory of drinking it.
I inhale deeply and promise myself this is a one-time occurrence, a slight mishap in my plight to block any and all feeling. A moment of weakness only, nothing more.
Just as I place my palms on the table and begin to stand, I notice a lone envelope. I frown, confused at when the hell it appeared. It’s addressed to me with no return address.
Weird.
Flipping it over, I examine the back to find it blank. Slowly, I slip my finger under the flap, inching it open, and peer inside. I extract the paper quickly and begin to unfold it when another piece of paper falls free. It flits to the table, this one smaller and lined, as though from a journal.
I observe it curiously before opening the last fold and flattening the paper against the table. The scrawl seems hurried, the message written with agitated strokes.
It’s time to come home. Your Wildflowers will need you now more than ever.
My heart leaps into my throat at the mention of the Wildflowers, and I choke back a surprised sob as I continue to read.
Meet at 5103 Stillhouse Ave. as soon as you can. We’ll be waiting. ~ Sally
Unexpected tears rise and blur my vision. I mean, I’ve been crying pretty much all morning, but these tears are different. They’re driven by a sense of fear, not the sorrowful, weighty ache I’ve felt over the last few hours.
Heart racing, I reach for the other sheet of paper, and my hands tremble as I open it. Because something deep, deep within me already knows what I’ll find.
I just didn’t expect to hear it from her.
My Wildflowers,
This is a rare moment of clarity for me, a brief stint of calm before the storm ravages my mind again. Though I’ve fought many unwelcome battles, I fear this one will be my undoing. That I will go too far to quiet the voices. To stop the pain.
I don’t want to die.
I do not want to die.
I need you to know this, to believe this.
Please, please, please do not think less of me for using again. This is the only way I know how to numb my agony, even if it’s only for a few fleeting moments. I’m well aware that by doing so, I’m teetering a very dangerous edge. An edge from which I’m in constant danger of falling, yet I do it anyway.
That night, I was unwillingly plucked from my happiness, uprooted and replanted on this dark and desolate path as soon as the drug entered my veins. Yet through the haze, I remember everything. I know what was done to me. I feel it every moment I continue to breathe. It’s his face I see every time I close my eyes, every morning when I wake, and right before I put another needle in my arm, even if it’s only for a brief escape. In those moments, I welcome the nothingness, the erasure of the events that haunt me. Because if only for a short while, I’m no longer trapped in my own personal hell plagued by the face of evil, but back in our field with our wildflowers. Only during these times am I able to find peace, to be free of the memory, innocent and laughing with the only three people who dared to know me. To really know me.
I feel each of you overestimated my strength, because the truth is, I had none before meeting you. With each Wildflower, I was gifted more. It was you who gave me reason to be strong, but now without you near, that strength is waning. Quickly.
For now, I continue to fight, to run the only way I know how.
I do not want to die, but if you are receiving this letter, it means I ran too far, pushed too much, and for that, I cannot apologize enough.
As you know, my greatest fear is being forgotten. That my existence made no impact, that my life didn’t matter. If this letter finds it’s way to you, I must ask one thing…
As I have no remaining family, my body will be cremated, as dictated by the state.
Please spread my ashes in our field with our wildflowers. I know only there will I find the peace I’ve been searching for, and only there will my roots find the will to survive, unforgotten as I begin the next stage of my existence in the soil that gave birth to so much more than flowers.
It gave me you.
It gave me strength.
And it gave me purpose.
It’s a selfish request, I know. But in this moment so full of despair, it’s all I can ask.
Do not mourn me. Revive me.
—Genesis
It’s an unavoidable wrecking ball, delivering a final, crushing blow.
The dam has finally broken, unleashing every ounce of agony I’ve suppressed. It claws through my soul, shredding me. I can’t breathe. The pain…it’s too much.
It hurts too much.
No!
No!
No!
I search frantically for the darkness, for my numbness, but there is none. Where are you now when I need you? Nothing. This amount of anguish…it’s too overwhelming, stealing my breath. My fingers clench the paper with purpose, but I release it before I rip it to shreds.
Her words replay in my mind. Over and over again. Relentlessly.
The sorrow coursing through my body ignites into fiery rage. Red fills my blurry vision. With every ounce of strength I can muster, I swing my hand in front of my body, sending the crystalline vase in the center of the table flying. I watch as it connects with the side of the island and shatters. Water sprays into the air and the pristine arrangement of flowers scatters before landing on the floor.
There is only the sound of my rapid breathing as I inspect the damage. I watch, mesmerized as rivulets of water curl along the lip of the island, then as each droplet separates and plummets.
Seconds pass, and I tear my eyes away from the shattered glass, once again taking in the open letters on the table.
Your Wildflowers will need you now more than ever.
I wipe away my tears, then inhale a long, steady breath. Resolve settles in my heart, cementing the shattered pieces and fusing them back together. It’s misshapen, a distorted shell of what it used to be, but determination fills me.
Revive me.
Like a seed taking root after being blown aimlessly by the wind, somehow her spirit plants itself within me, suffusing me with renewed vigor and awakening my senses, allowing me to take my first full breath in months.
A glimmer of reason flickers in my soul, bringing me one step closer to living beyond my darkness. And I take that step, no matter how painful and torturous. I do it because there’s no other choice.
Because in Genny’s death, I find my reason. My purpose.
I refuse to let Genny’s existence die with her. I will not allow her greatest fear to come to fruition.
I will make sure she lives on.
And I know how to do it.