Where the Wild Flowers Grow

Chapter Two

10 years ago

"Pia Pia, come quickly, it's mama, she's not waking up!" My brother's frantic cries jolted me awake from a sleep I don't even remember falling into. As I groggily sat up and processed his words, the realization hit me. Mom.

I leap out of bed and dash down the eerie old stairs to my mother, still on the couch where I left her. My brother is right; she isn't breathing. He killed her. She's gone. A whirlwind of emotions overwhelms me until I notice my terrified 10-year-old brother standing beside me. I hug him tightly and reassure him that everything is going to be okay.

Until it wasn't. My father enters the room, still coming down from his high and reeking of alcohol. I lean down and whisper to my baby brother, "Go up to my room. Our markers, pencils, and sketchbooks are in my closet. Sit in there and make me something. I'll be right up." He wipes away his tears and runs up the stairs.

"What, son? You can't face your own dad? I didn't raise you to be such a little pussy," my dad yelled up at him. "Just go, buddy. It's okay," I shouted up to him with a smile, though inside I was trembling from the events I was sure were about to unfold.

I looked back at my dad, and if looks could kill, I'd be a goner for sure. I don't know if you'd call it luck, but my mom lying on the couch caught his attention and distracted him from whatever he was about to do. "Marie, wake your lazy ass up and help me with these disrespectful little brats you insisted on keeping."

"She's dead," I faintly whispered.
"What the fuck did you just say?" my dad said angrily.
"I said she's dead. You killed her." I don't know what came over me to speak so bravely to my dad like this.
"Worthless piece of trash. We need to get her rotten ass off my couch," he said with a menacing laugh.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" I cried. I couldn't hold it in anymore. I was so angry for all the shit he has done in my 15 years of life, to all of us.

I knew I made a mistake opening my mouth when he came stomping toward me. He grabbed me around my ribs and squeezed hard. It hurt to breathe. He knows not to leave marks where people will see; he's smart about it. As he screamed so close to my face that I could feel his sweat, I didn't hear a word he said. I go to my happy place when he does this: a beautiful sunset, a field full of the most stunning wildflowers, and the feeling of love. I wish I were a wildflower, beautiful and free.

He finally lets go, and I catch my breath. "You know I love you. Why do you make me do these things? You're just like your mom," he says. I look down, hoping not to upset him again.

"Your mom came home high as a kite from that piece of shit Ricky's again last night. I assume they got into it, and he smacked her upside the head. She must have OD'd." He pauses and stares at me for what seems like forever. "Do you understand?" I stand in silence. "DO YOU UNDERSTAND?" he yells again. "Yes, I understand," I say, holding back my tears.

Today

I wake up with the events from last night replaying in my head. I reach up and feel the cut along my neck—it's pretty deep. Not deep enough for stitches, but it'll definitely leave a scar. I roll over and hear the soft tune of some old country music playing, accompanied by the most delicious smell: bacon. I trail out of the bedroom and make my way to the kitchen, where I see Hazel has made a whole buffet of breakfast items. How can someone be this kind? I thought to myself.

"Good mornin', sweet pea! How'd ya sleep? I hope you're hungry!"

"Good morning, I slept better than I have in a long time and this all smells amazing! You didn't have to do all this."