The Flowers In Your Garden

Chapter 1 - Opening The Wound

Love. A feeling we are all capable of. We all need. As humans, we have this constant urge to surround ourselves with love. I never had that urge. Maybe I should rephrase that. I never had that opportunity. So I never wanted love. From family. From friends. Too busy on the run, from one town to the next. Never getting the chance to find love. This story isn't just a love story, if that's what you were expecting. It's not even a story. It's a wound. A wound that starts off open but becomes so much more than an open wound. It becomes a wound that's been salted and mutilated. A wound that couldn't be stitched, but needed to be accepted. This is my way of accepting it, now I'm making my first step. Opening the wound.

I can't remember anything about my Dad. It's almost like extraterrestrials abducted me and erased him from my brain. It fucks me up every day. A whole person. Blurred. Lost. How is that even humanly possible? For every second I spent with him to become completely dissipated. Don't get me wrong, I remember a few things here and there. But it's like the main parts are being kept away from me... I quickly click back into reality. Staring out into the fields most likely a meadow, then came the next field most likely a pastureland; a grassy land used mostly for animals. Then came a forest with mostly tall pine trees and yellowed grass. I've been through this a million times before. I'm counting down until Mom...

"Maybe a new start will do you good," says that. Her words are like clockwork. In another 6 months, those same words will leak out. I hear the loud-pitched friction between the rails and wheels of the train, which likely means the train is slowing down. We've reached our stop. Cardinal Oaks is what I'll call home now. God knows how long that'll last.

I grab my black metal suitcase that's wrapped in thousands of stickers from over the years, you can't even make out half of them, my favourite being the Spiderman sticker Dad got me from the theatre a couple of years back, one of my few memories of Dad. I take a deep breath as I step off the train. The air was sticky, and the smell of fresh concrete filled my nose. I walk out into a not-so-new town, every town has the same three features; way too many people, flashing lights that blind you as soon as you arrive, and billboards filled with ads, usually some new garbage latte at Starbucks.

"Taxi!" My mom waves her hands at the bright yellow taxi. I get in, moving over to the right side. The taxi driver adjusts his mirror and gleams at me. "Where y'all headed?" he asks. My mom leans in closer to him. Almost brushing his shoulder. "30-30 Manchester Street please," she says politely. I look back out the window. I wonder if this place will be different from the last. There's one thing that might keep us weighed to Cardinal Oaks. Not only did my Mom grow up here, but it's also our first move after Dad... My mom rubs my leg. Her perfume was a flower bomb almost making me physically want to cough it out. "You know how I feel about touching, Mom." "I'm sorry sweety." Ever since I was little, nobody was allowed to touch me, I got upset and uncomfortable. I never knew why, but my family just knew it was a fact. Don't touch Tj. "Remember you start school tomorrow. I start my new job as well, so Aunt Ginger's going to drive you to school. Unless you want to walk." "It's fine Mom, I can walk. I need to get to know my way around if this is going to be a permanent home." "You know we can't guarantee that, I said if things go ok we're going to be here for a while." I glance at her hand, her nails tapping against her black leggings. She does that when she's antsy. "It was going to be permanent before you know, it's just well... You know what happened. I needed to get away from that town. Everything kept reminding me of him. Plus, there are better jobs and education for me and you both... Oh, I just hope you can make some new friends here," she gloomed. I sighed. "Don't worry about me Mom, I'll be fine on my own." She gives me a fake smile, the one she gives me when she has something to say, but resists because she doesn't want to hurt me. That's my Mom for you, always judging silently. The taxi driver stops and gestures his hand out at us. Begging for money like a dog for its treats. My mom puts a 20-dollar bill in his hand, I've never seen a guy smile so hard for a twenty. "Thank you!" we say simultaneously as we walk out, grabbing the bags from the trunk.