Nora has been tormented by haunting nightmares for months, yet amidst the darkness, she begins to encounter a captivating girl whose presence mesmerises her. The girl's beauty is so striking that Nora finds herself longing to see her again in her dr...
❛ Seven of Cups Upright Searching for Purpose / Choices ❜ Camden
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I TRACE THE SCAR ON MY OUTER THIGH out of habit, the texture rough beneath the pad of my finger. The repetitive motion is oddly soothing, even as the memories it stirs are anything but.
The house smells like breakfast, the comforting aroma of bacon and eggs wafting through the air, making my stomach growl in response.
"Can you please stop that? It's making me feel queasy." My sister sits to the right of me, her eyes fixated on the scar as I let my hand continue its absent-minded tracing.
"It's my scar. I can do what I want," I retort, sticking out my tongue at her for extra effect. She rolls her eyes but doesn't press further.
The feel of the scar under my finger instantly transports me back to the night of the accident. Sirens blaring, red and blue lights flashing in a chaotic dance, yellow caution tape fluttering in the breeze—so much tape, and there's me, lying there amidst it all.
I can only remember fragments, snippets of a night that my mind refuses to fully grasp. Dissociative amnesia, they call it. A condition that blocks out important memories about yourself after traumatic events. In my case, it's all about the accident. While the specifics elude me, certain sensations and images remain stubbornly etched in my consciousness.
I don't recall every detail, but I vividly remember the feeling of helplessness as I lay on that stretcher, my body taut with pain and fear. I can still see the look in my mother's eyes, wide with panic and glistening with tears, as she ran alongside me. Her hand gripped the rail of the stretcher so tightly her knuckles turned white, never letting go as doctors and nurses rushed me to the operating room. The sterile smell of the hospital, the harsh fluorescent lights, the blur of faces around me—all of it is seared into my memory, even if the rest is shrouded in fog.
My sister's voice snaps me back to the present. "You're doing it again," she says, softer this time. I stop tracing the scar and look at her, trying to shake off the lingering shadows of the past.
"Sorry," I mumble, more to myself than to her. The scar is a constant reminder of that night, of what was lost and what remains hidden in the recesses of my mind.
As I get up from the couch and head towards the kitchen, the smell of breakfast grows stronger, a small comfort amidst the turmoil. "Where's dad?" I ask, trying to focus on the here and now, on the simple pleasures of a morning meal shared with my family.
"In the garden tending the flowers," my mother smiles, her voice warm and inviting. "I'm pretty sure he's made a whole bed of your favourites." As if on cue, my dad bursts into the house, a bunch of flowers clutched in his grasp.
"Dad!" A smile tugs at my lips as he steps forward. "Oh my gosh." Excitement bubbles in my stomach as I take in the sight of my favourite flowers.
"They finally bloomed!" he exclaims, his eyes shining with pride. "For you, Jules."
I don't like my name. My first name is Julia. To everyone else, however, I'm Camden. Despite my persistent efforts to convince my family to use my preferred name, they always give me the same response, "You're just Julia." I try not to let it bother me, but it's a constant reminder of the disconnect between how I see myself and how they see me sometimes.
Still, I push those thoughts aside as my dad presses a kiss on my forehead and hands me the flowers. The bouquet is vibrant, a mix of colours and fragrances that instantly lifts my spirits. I hold the flowers close, inhaling their sweet scent, feeling a warmth spread through me that momentarily chases away the lingering shadows of the past.
"These are beautiful, Dad," I say, my voice soft with genuine appreciation. "Thank you."
He smiles, a hint of relief in his eyes, as if my happiness is all the validation he needs. "Anything for you, Jules. I know how much you love these."
I glance at my mother, who is watching us with a gentle smile. There's a sense of normalcy in this moment, a fleeting illusion that everything is perfectly fine. I cling to it, cherishing the simple joy of being surrounded by my family, even if they don't fully understand me.
As I place the flowers in a vase, arranging them with care, my thoughts drift back to the the scar that constantly reminds me of that fateful night. But right now, in this moment, I choose to focus on the present—the warmth of my father's gesture, the love in my mother's smile, and the vibrant beauty of the flowers that he grew just for me.
"Let's sit down for breakfast," my mother suggests, her voice breaking through my reverie. "Your favourite, of course."
"Sounds perfect," I reply, my heart lighter as I join them at the table. The aroma of freshly cooked food mingles with the scent of the flowers, creating a comforting atmosphere that feels almost magical.
As we settle in for the meal, the familiar routines and simple pleasures of family life offer a temporary sanctuary from the complexities and challenges of my inner world. For now, I allow myself to be just Julia, embraced by the love of my family, even as I hold onto Camden in my heart.
