Young Writers Society

Disclaimer: haven't written anything in a while. tw for mention of substance abuse i guess

[Edit 8/15/23: Lilly's name is changed to Kitty which was the original name but there was a copyright discrepancy with a friend's OC haha...]

Chapter 1 – Rhys

Tomorrow would mark five years since Rhys had been sober. It was hard at first, but the more distance she put between herself and her temptations, the easier it became. It wasn’t like booze or sniff was easy to find on this continent anyhow. There was coffee, plenty of it. She’d actually begun to grow her own against the walls of her cabin. The bushes now blocked one of her windows and the berry laden branches lashed the home during thunderstorms. Today, they needed to be trimmed.

She marched out of the house that morning, armed with a pair of shears. She was barefoot, with brown trousers rolled up just below her knees, her elbow length blonde hair braided back in two rows to keep it out of her eyes, and a loose-fitting sleeveless cotton shirt tucked into her belt. The shirt offered little to no support for her chest, which was nearly always unbound, but, as she’d noted many times with indifference, there wasn’t much support needed. The shirt nearly threadbare, which made it perfect for working under the hot sun. The humidity of this continent was the opposite of the one she’d grown up on, but she didn’t like thinking about that place. There were more important things to think about, like the trimming of the coffee trees.

It had been on her mind too often, recently. The beauty of living in a place so remote was that she wasn’t bothered by the noise of the village or the bustle of people moving too quickly. But on the downside, she was often alone with herself, or whatever temptations still lurked inside her head.

The branches were thick and difficult to snap with her shears. She struggled to break them. She’d let them get away and grow unhindered, which meant a bountiful harvest, but also the risk of broken windows. She’d just recently put glass in that window as well and finally tossed the burlap away.

Five years. A long time, she thought as the branches fell. Tomorrow, five years. Kitty would be coming to see her in town, and Rhys had planned to get together a basket for her. Her little farm was slowly coming together and she knew Kitty would appreciate not having to buy coffee for a while.

From the treeline, a dog barked. A scruffy brown mixed breed of a dog, about medium sized, came bounding out with a stick in his teeth. Rhys turned and chuckled.

“I’m busy Ringo. Go chase squirrels.” Bush tailed rats, more like. They raided her fruit and nut trees regularly. Ringo had done a good job of scaring them off. More than once she’d had to climb up and bring him down from a tree he’d climbed and forgotten how to get down.

The dog dropped the stick at her feet and waited. She tried to ignore him, but when he started to whine she leaned down, picked up the stick, and sent it sailing into the woods. The dog was off like a shot and disappeared.

“What a loon.” She dug at the branches with her dull shears. She’d have them sharpened when she went in town tomorrow. She pulled down one large branch and tossed it into the goat pen. The goats bleated and began to enjoy the leaves.

Coffee. There was some brewing in the house now. The warm coffee was such a contrast to what she used to drink waking up in the morning.

Quit thinking about that, gods. The memories were fresher this morning. They’d be worse tomorrow when she went to see Kitty. It wasn’t her fault she worked in a saloon, she made good money. But she smelled like hard whiskey and beer, which was sometimes all too inviting a scent.

Ironic, that a bartender had been the one who got her sober in the first place.

“Here Ringo!” She called, tossing the rest of the branches into the pile. Now she could at least see through her window.

The dog came running, and she threw the stick again. When he took off she went inside and poured herself a cup of hot, bold coffee, and picked up a basket. Met at the door by Ringo, she started down the path with her cup in one hand and basket on the other arm, headed for the woods. Most of her dried herbs were going to Kitty in her gift basket, so she needed to gather some more. Onion and parsley were growing wild in the half shade by the creek, and rosemary and lavender hid in the dry soil on the rim of the draw, sheltered by scrub oak and yaupon.

As she picked her way through the brush towards the creek she was quiet. Sometimes, after weeks alone in the woods, it felt like she forgot how to speak. It was hard enough to get the right words out when one made a habit of talking every day, but in the silence, it was so easy to melt into the sounds of the wind in the branches and the birds in the trees. To speak without saying a word and to move with the wind and sit in peace with the damp earth after a storm. It was almost like she became part of the earth out there, when words failed.

Not that the earth would have anything to do with me.

Dammit. She paused and stood on one foot, plucking a thorn from her left foot. She flicked it to the side and kept walking. Why now? It was a beautiful day. She’d rebraided her hair this morning. It wasn’t much, but after two weeks of dealing with the sweaty, matted mess, she’d finally gotten the gumption to wash it out in the river. And now she was rushing to finish Kitty’s gift basket, as the past week or so had been a particularly slow one. Great weather, pleasant temperatures, but for some reason, the house was the most comforting place.

“Kitty would’ve made me go outside.” She mumbled, and stooped to trim the tops of the wild onion she’d discovered. Ringo chased squirrels through the brush.

It was good here. Good food, though it was work to come by. Shelter, peace and quiet. Free from controlling arms and judging eyes.

You’ve sinned, daughter, will you repent and come home?

Rhys started and looked up, scanning the trees and brush for any sign of another human. Her dog came back to her, wagging his tail and holding another stick. Where’d that voice come from?

She quickened her pace towards the river. She needed parsley. Think about the parsley. The clear water. She could hear it from here. Her feet hardly made a sound on the soft earth as she headed down the bank.

Finally she reached the water and carefully waded into it to her knees. The water was crystal clear and the pebbles were smooth under her calloused feet. The water was refreshing. A contrast to the hard clay that had calloused her feet as a child. She leaned down, taking her empty coffee mug and scooping up some of the clear water to drink. It was cool, and tasted fresh and clean.

Five years ago this was garbage.

“Love of gods…” She growled and dumped out the remainder of her cup. She placed it in the basket and climbed back up to the bank to cut some parsley. Next was the rosemary. Then it was time to go home.

“Maybe we’re just havin’ a bad day, Ringo.” She leaned down to pet the dog’s head, who was now soaking wet from playing in the water. 

Ringo barked. Rhys didn’t know if he understood or not, but he might as well. So long as he didn’t share the things she told him, there was nothing to worry about.

“Good boy.” She scratched his ears. Picking up her basket she started the trek to the patch of yaupon and rosemary. To get there required going through a deep draw and climbing up the opposite side. It was a hike for most people barefoot, but Rhys had always been just fine on hard ground. She sometimes didn’t even notice when long hours of work in the dirt caused her feet to split. Those were the few times she’d actually had to dig her boots out of the closet. They were hot and constricting and the socks itched, especially on those bad days where she didn’t want to leave the house anyway.

She’d wear them to town to see Kitty though, that was too far a walk on cobbled roads in the heat even for her. Ringo would have to stay home, the roads were too hot for his paws.

A cool breeze rustled the branches above her head and chilled her damp trousers. She was still thin, that hadn’t changed. It didn’t help during the wintertime. At least she wasn’t a skeleton like she’d been…

Everything. Everything brought her back to five years ago. Or before that. Thoughts that crept into her mind despite her best efforts to ignore them.

Almost to the draw, hope the rainwater’s cleared up or we’ll be knee deep in mud. Stop thinking about that. Have to go get those herbs…

Before her solution was to drown them. Now, focusing on building her home and growing her own food was what had begun to heal her mind, but the home was built and the garden was flourishing, and yet there was still…something. Something missing.

Or something that remained, and refused to leave her, no matter how hard she tried.