Where the Wounds Bloom

Chapter Five: Family.

The past was a haze, a jumble of moments that felt like trying to piece together a shattered mirror. Kari often wondered how much of it she remembered accurately, and how much her mind had blurred the edges to make it all seem less painful. The memories of their childhood came in flashes-fragments of conversations, fleeting images of places that never quite felt like home, and the ever-present sense of instability that hung over everything like a storm cloud.

She remembered the smell of cigarette smoke clinging to their mother's coat, the way it filled the small apartments or hotel rooms they'd drifted in and out of. There was always noise, always a low hum of voices or the rattling of dice, the clinking of coins falling into slot machines. Their mother, caught up in her gambling addictions, would leave them behind for hours, sometimes days, in the care of relatives who never seemed to want the responsibility. Kari had learned early on that stability was a luxury they couldn't afford.

She and Skye weren't always together during those times, shuffled from one place to another, separated when the arrangement suited their mother's plans better. They would go weeks without seeing each other, and when they finally reunited, it felt like strangers meeting again, trying to find the common thread that still bound them. Kari had grown used to being alone, to looking out for herself, but she always kept a watchful eye on Skye when they were together. Skye was the one thing that made her feel like she still had a piece of home, even when everything else felt like it was slipping away.

There was one memory in particular that always clawed its way back to Kari, no matter how much she tried to forget. They had been staying with a distant cousin in a rundown house on the edge of town. Skye must have been around ten, Kari barely twelve. Their mother had come to pick them up, reeking of stale beer and cigarettes, her eyes bloodshot and her voice rough. Kari had known right away that this visit wouldn't end well.

She remembered the argument that followed-vivid flashes of their mother's sharp voice cutting through the air, the way she seemed so much larger than life in that moment, towering over Skye with a mix of anger and desperation.

"Kari! Skye! Come on, we're leaving!" their mother had barked, yanking Skye by the arm so hard that she stumbled.

Kari remembered standing in the doorway, frozen, watching the scene unfold as if she were outside her own body. Skye had tried to pull away, her face pale, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and defiance.

"Mom, no-stop, please! I don't want to go with you!" Skye had cried, her voice breaking.

Their mother's response had been quick and cold, a slap across the face that echoed through the small house. "You don't get to tell me what to do, Skye! I'm your mother, and you'll do what I say!"

Kari's heart clenched even now, remembering the way Skye had crumpled to the floor, clutching her cheek with silent tears running down her face. Kari had wanted to intervene, to protect her little sister, but fear had rooted her to the spot. She was old enough to understand that any defiance would only make things worse, and so she had stayed silent, her hands clenching into fists at her sides.

The cousin they'd been staying with had kept his distance, muttering under his breath about "family business" as he disappeared into another room, leaving the two girls to their fate. No one ever wanted to get involved when their mother's temper flared. It was easier to pretend they didn't see, didn't hear.

Kari tried to remember what happened after that, but the memory dissolved into a blur of raised voices and slamming doors. She knew they had left that house in the middle of the night, their mother dragging them back to yet another temporary shelter, another place where they'd have to pretend that everything was normal. But the image of Skye on the floor, her small body curled up and trembling, stayed with her long after they'd moved on.

Years later, when Skye had asked her about that night, Kari had lied. She told Skye she couldn't remember the details, that everything had been too chaotic back then. She didn't have the heart to admit that she remembered every agonizing second, that she still felt the shame of not doing more. But deep down, she knew that Skye remembered too-that they both carried those scars, even if they never spoke about them.

As Kari stood at the kitchen window now, watching the rain fall, she let those memories wash over her, acknowledging the ache they still caused. She wished she could tell her younger self that it wasn't her fault-that none of it had been fair or right. But all she could do now was try to make sense of the pain, to learn from it, and to help Skye do the same.

The past had been confusing, a patchwork of instability and neglect, but it had also forced her to grow up quickly, to see the world for what it truly was. It had taught her that people, even the ones who should love you the most, could be unreliable, selfish, and destructive. But it had also taught her how to survive, how to find strength in herself when there was no one else to turn to. And for that, in a strange way, she was grateful.

Kari closed her eyes, taking a deep breath, allowing the memory of that night to settle back into the shadows where it belonged. She couldn't change what had happened, but she could make sure that she and Skye never had to live that way again. It was a promise she had made to herself long ago, in the quiet moments when fear threatened to swallow her whole. And it was a promise she intended to keep, no matter how difficult the journey ahead might be.