Daffodils and Hyacinths (3rd book in the Forgotten Truths series)

17. SISTER

(That night...)

~Hebe~

  We all camp under a tree, one of the last semi-alive trees. The others fell to our collapsing world. It is a temporary base, until we can find another home to squat in. I sigh. Everyone has long since gone to sleep. I.. just can't find it myself.

  Thoughts swarm me. Cloud me. Won't let me rest. So, I just watch the clear night skies.

Our old home, is probably in ruins.

While it is not the home Mus and I lived in while being apart of our society, I feel as though I belong there.

It kept us safe, housed us, and we just left it to die.

  I sigh. This isn't about houses. I'm thinking of someone else.

  ' My dad starts yelling at my mom, in loud spouts of anger. She throws back insults. Both of the quarreling, I choose to block out.

  Clover comes back, but even my pretty sister won't stop them. Again, she takes me by the hand.

  "Look at me."

  She shakes me, and makes sure I'm looking at her. Once I am, she gives a smile, which somehow helps to dim what is going on around us.

  Mom lifts her hand, and gives Dad a hard slap on the face. For a moment, everything goes silent. A large handprint remains of his face.

  The uproar of his rage worsens. She starts to back away, and mumbles quick 'sorry's, but this doesn't cool him. He grabs the hilt of one of our fancy plates, that are only used for special occasions, and—

  "Look at me." Clover says again; more sternly.

  Clover is not that much older than me. Girls are not allowed to learn subjects like math, or reading. Yet, I remember Mom saying she is only about two years older than me.

  I guess someone could say I'm self-taught. I know some numbers, and some letters, like the number 8, and 2, and 10, and the letters 'H' and 'C'. — Those are the first two letters of mine and Clover's name.

  However, Clover, for only being about 2 years older than me, is quite experienced in these incidents. I remember how Mom used to keep me in our room, and just showing Clover to our father. Like their prized jewel.

'She must have been through this kind of stuff before,' I realize.

  ' The door slams shut.

  I'm sitting on Clover's bed; it's pretty dark outside. We made "dolls" out of some of the flowers on our kitchen table. We usually play at night, as there isn't much to be done at night.

  I remember this to be awhile back. Sure, I would say I'm the best self-taught-er here, but I don't know much about how to keep time with numbers. This was around when Clover and I were moved to the same bedroom. Maybe this was something between "2" and "8".

  On our bed, we have an assortment of flowers. The petals are their hair. Clover usually came up with the names, and I chose the flowers.

  — Not that I really remember any of their names now. The flowers have long wilted since the last of us playing with our little village.

  I turn my attention towards the loud slam. Clover clenches her flower. It is broken; it's bent at a weird angle. We would bury her later. Probably under the carpet.

  Our mom stands at the entrance to our small bedroom. Her hair is stringy, and her head is bent low. She looks like something out of one of my night-terrors.