Where the Wounds Bloom

Chapter Six: Special.

Skye stared at the ceiling of her small bedroom, listening to the rain as it beat a gentle rhythm against the window. The sound had always been comforting to her, a reminder of nights long ago when she and Kari had found solace in whatever little comforts they could. She thought back to those years when they'd been little more than kids trying to navigate a world that seemed determined to keep them on their toes. A world where trust was fragile, and safety was fleeting.

She had never fully let herself sink into those memories before, always keeping them at arm's length. But lately, the past seemed to creep in more often, especially now that she and Kari were talking more about the things they'd buried. She closed her eyes, letting the memories come, even though she knew they would hurt.

Skye's first clear memory of having to be the adult was when she was around nine, and Kari was only seven. Their mother had left them alone in a small, dingy apartment with nothing but a box of cereal and a carton of milk. She had said she'd be back in a few hours, but those hours had stretched into an entire day. Skye had known, even then, that this was something she couldn't rely on.

She remembered waking up the next morning to find Kari curled up next to her on the couch, her little body shivering under a thin blanket. She had tried to keep Kari's spirits up, making breakfast with what little they had, doing her best to pretend everything was normal. But even at that age, she could sense that this wasn't how things were supposed to be.

And yet, she couldn't bring herself to be angry at their mother back then. She had believed that maybe, if she could just be good enough, quiet enough, helpful enough, their mother might come around. That hope had faded with time, replaced by a sense of resignation. But the habit of taking care of Kari had stuck with her. It was as if she had taken on the role of a parent without ever really knowing what that meant.

One memory surfaced, clear and sharp, a day when Skye had confronted their mother. She must have been around twelve, her patience finally worn thin by another broken promise.

"Mom, why do you keep leaving us like this?" Skye had asked, her voice trembling with a mix of fear and frustration. They had been sitting in the living room of yet another temporary apartment, the air thick with the stale smell of smoke.

Her mother had barely glanced up from the deck of cards she was shuffling. "I'm doing what I have to do to keep a roof over our heads, Skye. You don't understand how hard it is."

"But... but it's not fair," Skye had insisted, her voice rising despite herself. "Kari cries herself to sleep when you're gone. I don't know how to make her feel better anymore. She's scared, and I don't know what to do."

Their mother's eyes had flashed with anger then, and she'd slammed the deck of cards onto the table, making Skye flinch. "You think I like this, Skye? You think I chose this life? You don't know anything! You're just a child. You don't get to question me."

Skye had shrunk back, swallowing her fear. But even then, she hadn't been able to stop herself. "Maybe if you stopped gambling, maybe if you just stayed home..."

Her mother had slapped her then, not as hard as the time she had hit Kari, but enough to sting, enough to send a clear message. "You don't know what you're talking about," she'd hissed, her voice low and dangerous. "You just keep your mouth shut and take care of your sister. That's all you need to do."

Skye had never forgotten the look in her mother's eyes that day-part anger, part desperation, like a woman fighting battles no one else could see. It was the first time Skye realized that their mother wasn't the invincible figure she'd always seemed to be. She was broken, too, in ways Skye couldn't understand. But that didn't make the hurt any easier to bear.

Those were the days when Skye had learned to hide her tears, to put on a brave face for Kari's sake. She would tell stories, sing silly songs, do anything she could think of to distract her sister from the reality of their situation. But there were nights when even her best efforts fell short, when Kari would cling to her, crying into her shoulder, and all Skye could do was hold her tight, whispering promises she wasn't sure she could keep.

But there had been one bright spot during those years, a little patch of light in the darkness: Shaquille. He was a boy from the apartment complex, a year older than Skye, with a wide smile and a laugh that seemed to fill up whatever space he was in. He and his mother lived just down the hall, and they had a way of making Skye and Kari feel like they weren't so alone in the world.

Shaquille's mom, Miss Tamara, had a gentle voice and a warm heart. She'd let Skye and Kari stay the night when their mother disappeared for days at a time, never asking too many questions, just offering a safe place to sleep and a meal that wasn't cereal. Skye had been grateful for those nights, for the way Miss Tamara would ruffle her hair and tell her she was doing a good job looking after Kari.

Shaquille and Skye had spent hours talking, sharing stories about school and playing games they made up in the hallways. He had this way of making her laugh when she felt like crying, of treating her like she was just a kid, not a caretaker. They would stay up late, whispering about what they wanted to be when they grew up-Shaquille dreaming of being a basketball player, while Skye's dreams were less clear, clouded by the reality she lived in.

She remembered one night in particular, sitting with Shaquille on the steps outside the apartment building. The air had been cool, and the city lights glowed in the distance.

"Do you ever think things'll get better?" Shaquille had asked, his voice quiet, like he was afraid of the answer.

Skye had shrugged, hugging her knees to her chest. "I don't know. I hope so. But even if they don't... I'll keep trying. I have to, for Kari."

Shaquille had nudged her with his shoulder, a small smile tugging at his lips. "You're strong, Skye. You know that?"

She had rolled her eyes, trying to hide the warmth that spread through her chest. "I don't feel strong. I just feel... tired."

"Yeah," Shaquille had said softly, his expression turning serious. "But that's what makes you strong, you know? Keepin' on, even when you're tired."

She had never forgotten those words. They had stuck with her, like a small, stubborn seed planted deep inside her heart. Shaquille had moved away a few years later, and they had lost touch, but she held onto those memories. They were like a lifeline, a reminder that even in the hardest times, there had been people who cared, who saw her.

Now, as she opened her eyes and returned to the present, Skye realized how much those experiences had shaped her. They had made her cautious, wary of trusting too easily, but they had also taught her resilience. She had learned to rely on herself because she had to, but she had also learned to find solace in those rare moments when someone else offered kindness without expecting anything in return.

She thought of Kari, and of the journey they were on now-trying to make sense of their past, trying to find a way to heal. It wasn't easy, and some days it felt like they were walking through a maze without a map. But Skye knew one thing for sure: they had survived so much already. And if they could survive that, then maybe, just maybe, they could find a way to something better.