pretty flower | 강새벽

048

(𝗞𝗜𝗠 𝗦𝗨𝗡-𝗛𝗜)

I remember the day my mother left as if it was yesterday, the loud argument that echoed through the house. Hyun-Woo and Sung-Hee clung to my sides as we huddled together in my closet, seeking solace in the confined space that somehow felt safe amid the chaos. 

In my arms, I cradled a newborn Chi-Ah, who slept soundly despite the turmoil outside. I rocked her gently, my soft hums providing a comforting lullaby that held the three children in a trance, overtaking the sounds of the chaotic clamour of objects crashing against walls and the floor as they were being thrown by my father. Each note that escaped my larynx was a promise, a vow to protect and care for my siblings, just as I had for years, both with my current siblings and the cherished stuffed animals that came before them.

As I cradled the three of them tightly, I couldn't help but wonder how long we'd be in here before our father's rage calmed down. The world outside our closet was a fiery haze of danger and uncertainty, but in this small, dimly lit space, we found a fragile refuge.

The closet was a sanctuary of sorts, a cocoon shielding us from the morbid fight I was certain I'd have to clean up later. I could hear the muffled sounds of our father's anger seeping through the thin walls of our hiding spot.

"It'll be okay," I mutter, my voice barely audible even in the confined space. "We just need to stay quiet and wait for him to calm down. You know how he is, he'll tire himself out eventually."

I could feel Sung-Hee's vibrations as she trembled next to me, clinging even further to my side. She was only four at the time, a hand covering her mouth as tears welling up in her eyes, hearing our mother's distant screams. Nine-year-old Hyun-Woo sat on the other side of me, a stoic expression on his face, eyes filled with a mixture of dear and defiance. He was old enough to understand the gravity of the situation, but much too young to do something about it. 

A few seconds of silence pass before I resume my humming, staring directly in front of me at the closet door, listening intently to the argument outside.

Outside, the world was in chaos. We had seen it on the news—riots, protests, and a pervasive sense of uncertainty. Our father's anger had been triggered by the growing tension in the world, but he had always been volatile. It was just getting worse.

The hours dragged on in the cramped closet, and I lost track of time before the sounds of chaos outside gradually subsided. The house fell into a heavy silence, broken only by the soft, measured sounds of our fathers' footsteps. At first, they were loud and purposeful, the creaking wooden floorboards bearing the weight of his troubled soul. Each step seemed to echo through the stillness of the night, a sombre reminder of the chaos that had just unfolded.

As he moved farther away from us, the footsteps gradually grew fainter, like the fading echo of a distant thunderclap. They became less distinct, merging with the ambient sounds of the night - the gentle rustling of leaves outside, the distant hum of a passing car, and the soothing chorus of crickets that seemed to sing a melody of solace.

With each diminishing footstep, a sense of relief washed over me. It was as if the darkness outside was swallowing up his anger and despair, carrying them away into the depths of the night. The tension that had gripped our home began to loosen its hold, replaced by a fragile calm that settled like a whisper.

At that moment, the fading footsteps were a bittersweet symphony, signalling not just his departure but also the possibility of a temporary respite from the storm that had engulfed our lives. They left behind a haunting echo, a reminder of the fragility of our existence, but also a glimmer of hope that we could endure whatever came next, as long as we had each other.

Once the distant echo of our father's footsteps had faded into the night, I knew it was time for us to emerge from our makeshift sanctuary. Carefully, I disentangled myself from my younger siblings, who still clung to me as if I were their lifeline. Sung-Hee's trembling had subsided, and Hyun-Woo's tense posture relaxed just a bit.

I whispered reassurances to them both, promising that it was safe to come out. Sung-Hee, her big brown eyes still wet with unshed tears, nodded and released her grip on me. Hyun-Woo, his expression a mixture of relief and lingering fear, offered a small, grateful smile.

Slowly, we pushed open the closet door, revealing the aftermath of the storm that had raged through our home. Broken objects and overturned furniture bore witness to the fury of our father's anger. It was a heartbreaking sight, a testament to the chaos that had become an unwelcome part of our lives.

I led both Hyun-Woo and Sung-Hee to their shared room, their small hands gripping mine as if seeking assurance in the face of our shifting world. Inside, I tucked them into their beds, their tired eyes still reflecting the lingering fear from the night's events. As I placed Chi-Ah in her bassinet, I leaned over to whisper soothing words, my hushed 'shh's like a lullaby that calmed her gentle stirring.

With their even breathing indicating that they had finally found peaceful slumber, I tiptoed past them and approached my mother's room. Her door was slightly ajar, and I pushed it open gently.

I enter the room to find her sitting on the edge of the bed, a small suitcase at her feet. Her face was covered in scrapes and bruises, matching the marks that ran along both her and my bodies, like matching tattoos. Her eyes were red from crying and, with one look, I could see the weariness overtaking her being.

"Hello, my precious flower." A weak smile formed on her lips as I made my way through the room, sitting down on the floor in front of her. As I sit down, her hand makes its way to my cheek, her soft fingertips brushing over the sensitive skin. "Are the others in bed?"

I nod in response, taking my mother's hand in mine, watching as tears threaten to spill out at any moment. My mother had always been a strong woman, never daring to show any sign of weakness in front of us. She hated the idea of her children seeing her so vulnerable, knowing that our fragile hearts had been witness to too much already. But as much as she tried to hide it, I always found myself in her presence when finally let the tears fly. 

And even now, as I watch the salty liquid spill from her dark, caramel-brown eyes, I've thought any less of her. 

"Tell me," I whisper, staring into the pain that lay behind her irises. "I can handle it."

"I have to go," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I don't think I can endure anymore."

I nodded, the weight of her decision settling heavily on my shoulders. I had seen this day coming and had felt it approaching like a dark cloud on the horizon. Our mother, a woman worn down by years of pain and fear, had made the agonizing choice to leave in search of a better life for herself and, in her heart, for us as well.

"Go," I whisper, placing a kiss on her forehead, and wiping away the tears from her eyes. I pull away from her slowly, watching as she grabs the suitcase. Watching as she leaves the room. Watching as she leaves the house. Watching as she disappears from our lives forever.

Five years had passed since that fateful night when my mother had walked away from our lives. In the absence of her calming presence and unwavering love, the burden of caring for my siblings had fallen squarely on my shoulders, all while I was fourteen.

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Word Count: 1345

There should be an update soon, I'm already writing the next chapter. ALSO book might be coming to an end soon but.... who knows