Silent Dreams

When I was nine, my dad was diagnosed with a disease called Lyme Borreliosis. He passed away when I was ten, but not from the infection, although it did make him weak and cause him to age with rapid speed. One Sunday morning before anyone else was up, he went into his garden -- the place where every single one of the doctors he met with concluded he'd caught the disease -- and watered his roses, daisies, his blossoms, and azaleas. He also sprayed them with vitamins and planted a bed of roses that he'd been promising me for days below my window.

You might presume he worked up quite a sweat doing so, being summer and all, and so he trotted off into the house for a shower and, well, he tripped on a bar of soap. Dad suffered severe head injuries. The doctor said he might recover in a matter of days, so long as we kept him on life-support, but my mother had the plug pulled at the hospital, considering she was a strict Christian with no tolerance for anything that went against the written word. It couldn't have been any more tragic and ill-timed; she was eight and a half months pregnant.

Ever since then I'd become accustomed to waking up at abnormally early hours of the morning. My dad was the same way, but only because he was obsessed with his flowers and liked to be up before the sun. It was eternally an afflictive curse to me -- mom was a completely different story, though. She called it a blessing, a sign from above to carry on my dad's unhealthy fixation, because, as she liked to put it, "It's what your father would have wanted."

I paid no attention to her nonsense. I did, however, have a tendency to sit on top of my window sill and stare down at the empty flower bed where my roses never amounted to anything other than sprouts before dying down.

On one particular morning, I saw something on the ground. A stem. An inspiration. A beginning. Maybe it was simply a mirage, but I sure as hell didn't plan on letting the thought fade into obscurity without finding out for sure. After slipping on a pair of shoes, I headed outside, the icy autumn wind piercing my skin immediately upon stepping out the door. In a trance-like state I hurried to the precise location where the flower bed lay and knelt down on one knee, closely observing the bed before spotting the tiny green plant. I rubbed it cautiously between my thumb and forefinger.

If anything could make me believe in God, it should've been this.

"Bryony?" June's squeak of a voice piped in.

At the break of dawn my sister's jade eyes sparkled with kind of innocence that is unattainable to anyone past the age of ten, her straw-colored hair shone in the light, her lips glistened with moistness. Anyone else would have questioned what exactly I was doing up at this hour, kneeling over what seemed to be an empty rectangle of soil, but June seemed to be completely unsurprised by my suspicious act.

"It's weird." I inhaled and exhaled deeply to steady my breathing, which I hadn't even noticed had quickened along with my heartbeat. "There's a bud growing here, but I don't know where it came from."

"Well..." She grinned, revealing the gap of her two missing front teeth, and peered down at the ground as if flattered by my observation. "I buried it there yesterday. Last week at school we planted seeds in a bottle and we got to bring them home yesterday. There's others in the kitchen if you want to go take a -- "

Her sudden explanation had me disillusioned and, honestly, pissed. I was stalking past her toward the house before she could even finish speaking, feeling deceived and stupid for being naive enough to believe that maybe all of the shit my mom committed herself to burdening my sister and I with might hold truth to it. June trailed behind me like a puppy, and as we walked into the house and up the stairs, she informed me that she'd given every one of her plants a name, except for the one in the empty bed that she'd left for experimental purposes.

"It'll be dead by tomorrow," I stated matter-of-factly before shutting my bedroom door in her face, making sure to lock it before heading for my closet.

It looked so empty. All of my age-appropriate attire was on the floor of my bedroom; dirty, reaking, unwearable. I continuously ran a hand across the fabric of several wool skirts my mom had bought me that I had never thought I'd even rip the tags off of, let alone wonder if maybe I should just give in and wear. It's not like wearing a hideous article of clothing would kill me, would it?

I pulled a skirt at random from its hanger and decided to wear the plain black shirt on my back, the same shirt I'd slept in. I kicked off my shorts and put on the skirt, carefully zipping it so that I wouldn't pinch myself. In the mirror I caught my reflection and the skirt didn't look half bad, but it was still way too long, and so I rolled it up a few inches before I was satisfied. After getting dressed, I ran a comb through my hair and pulled my dark locks into a ponytail and put a load of mascara on. (I had to compensate the ugly somehow.)

“Bryony, you look pretty,” June said, her head jerking back as mom, whose head shot up, braided her long hair.

“Thanks, Junebug,” I mumbled, rushing toward the door. “Bye.”

“You're not gonna eat breakfast? I made French toast,” Mom said with a hint of desperation in her tone. Our relationship had disentegrated completely since my freshman year of high school. From then on we were two strangers living under the same roof, who, at times, made awkward small-talk and shared a few meals together. I preferred to cook, clean, and wash clothes for myself, which was obviously the reason behind me hardly ever getting any of those done, and in return I'd avoid lectures about the Lord wanting children to obey their parents and help around the house.

As extreme as it sounds, eating that French toast was the equivalent of Eve biting the forbidden fruit; I'd be screwed if I gave in to her seemingly innocent gestures.

I waved her off as I stepped outside.

The walk to school wasn't short, but I still enjoyed the time I had to myself, and fall had always been my favorite season. I hurried along and managed to arrive at school less than a half hour later, just minutes before the bell, but I liked it that way. I deeply inhaling the crisp air before stepping into the building. The moment I walked in I was enveloped by the toasty, yet artificial, heat coming from the school radiator. I licked my dry lips and peered around the halls for one of my friends.

“Hey, Bryony!” was called out before I could even focus my eyes on an individual face. My head whipped around in a flash and I could see Emily, my best friend, standing at her open locker. The place was so crowded that I had to push and shove just to get her, but that nothing new.

“Hi.”

“I'm so excited for drama today.” She smiled and dropped a book in her locker, her frizzy hair floating due to the static of her locker. “We're going to pick partners and re-enact a scene from Hamlet...”

I was listening – really. I just had a tendency of turning my head when people talked to me and observing what was going on all around. It was hard to miss the couple making out against a locker, especially from the angle where I stood. Our principal, who was less than four feet away, was completely oblivious to this because of the group of chattering kids between them. My eyes wandered across the halls to several other people before they locked themselves in on a stringy-haired boy lurking in the shadows. He was wearing a slight scowl and tired eyes of someone who hadn't very well had a good night's sleep.

I actually recognized him. His eyes averted to mine when he felt my stare and, though his hard features gradually softened, his gaze still penetrated my soul. And I would've tried to talk to him right then if it hadn't been for the bell.