When Worlds Collide

Prologue

"What these flowers called?" my little sister Mary had asked, a wide, toothless grin stretched across her face. She was pointing to a single white flower in front of her crossed legs, even though the entire field was blanketed in the little flowers.

"English daisies," I smiled, feeling one of the flower petals gently between my forefinger and thumb. "They are supposed to represent childhood."

"Really?" Mary continued to grin as she plucked the nearest one from the ground and began to strip off its soft white petals, one by one. It made me feel a little foul inside. "Why so many?"

I shrugged my shoulders, looking out over the field of English Daisies. "Lots of kids have been around here," I mumbled.

Mary didn't reply, instead cutting the stem of the flower with her fingernail. She was fascinated by it, and most likely had not listened to a word I just said. But that was okay, because she has made great progress in her social skills nonetheless, and it really showed.

"Ready to go back Mary?" I asked the curious eight-year old.

"No."

I sighed, and closed my eyes. It was around six in the evening, and the air had become a bit chilled. Mary's little scuffle with the neighborhood kids meant we had to go especially far, for her own safety and the other kids'.

Mary doesn't know how to properly express feelings of anger and frustration, and simply can't empathize with others. Most children at Mary's age were aware of what compromise meant, and that grabbing a fist full of someone else's hair and yanking when you don't get your way wasn't exactly good social etiquette. Doesn't mean she's a bad kid, because she's not, she just had a rough start in life. Like all of us in that house.

"I like English Daisies," Mary had concluded as I walked us back to the house, just a few minutes shy of seven o' clock, her small hand firmly grasped in mine.

I smiled softly down at her, and whispered, "I do too."

~

I sat down at the small kitchen table placed at the side of the kitchen, finally getting the chance to finish my disrupted dinner.

"Thank you for helping her calm down. I really appreciate it," Mrs. Clarissa spoke tiredly as she sat down at the old wooden table with me, her fingers wrapped tightly around a cup of steaming green tea. Her light brown hair had begun to show grey roots, and her tortoise shell glasses were perched precariously on the tip of her long nose. Her brown eyes were tired, but never any more dull.

"It's not a problem, really," I shook my head, picking up the small pills that were placed on the napkin next to me, courtesy of Mrs. Clarissa, and swallowed my nightly medication dry. Mrs. Clarissa smacked the back of my head playfully, scolding me for taking my pills without water. She's convinced I'll burn a hole through my stomach doing it, and doesn't take too kindly to my tendency of taking them on an empty stomach either. She pushed a cup of water across the table towards me, and I sheepishly took the cup and chased my pills down with water.

"Summer is coming to an end Ivan, any plans for your final couple of weeks?" Mrs. Clarissa smiled kindly at me, her chin propped up on one of her hands.

I shrugged. So far my summer hasn't been any different from the others; I took care of Mary and Benji when Mrs. Clarissa was away, walked up and down the roads in town, and took great care in keeping my mind on a tight leash. It was the summer that represented my daily life, really.

"You know, Ivan, it might not be so bad to change things up a bit. Go somewhere you've never gone before, meet someone new, break the routine. I hate to see you run yourself down with the same old habits," Mrs. Clarissa's lips quirked up slightly as she nodded her head in encouragement. How do you get a stubborn, mentally ill teenager to do things? Beats me.