Young Writers Society

I walked into my sister room. I felt like... in a dream. Everything in here decorated femininely, the soft colour with matching decoration, from the pillow sheets to the vanity tables. I crossed the room, ran my hands across the bookshelf as my hands fold against the hanging flowers. For years I lived under the same roof with my sister, this is the first time I entered her room. I was antagonized with how calming this room is, contrasted to my chaotic hardships I faced daily.

I placed my boots on the white carpet and kneel down to the lone book on the floor. "Language of flora.” I opened a page of a Lavandula was waving to me and my nose filled with the aromatic smell of lavender, I glanced through saying lavender was used in offering to the pharaoh of ancient times. I flipped over another page, Helianthus, a bright yellow sunflower was glowing and Helios himself floating above the page. I was genuinely fascinated by the magic of this book, I rapidly flipped the pages, urging them to tell me about the secret it holds. Liliodeae, Lilieae, Orchidaceae, Phaleria macrocarpa…I chuckled when a red smoky heart exploded when it was about Red Rosoideae – Rose. More interesting, the Allium cepa-commonly known as onion managed to tear my eyes. I was enjoying this short moment of peace I can get.

“YOU!!” a sharp shriek rang before I realized a sharp pain the back of my head as my short hair was yanked back by a small hand. I struggled to stand straight the moment my hair was free from her death grip.

“What are you doing here? What are you holding?!” A golden hair girl with her nose fuming shouted.

‘I was just… I was learning about… plants.” I stuttered to that sister of mine.

“Don’t touch my things!” she screamed then grunts hardly.

I walked towards her, wanting to hold her arm to ask for forgiveness. She snatched her hand hard and hit my face and I stumbled toward the fire pit with my hands landed to the burning coals, the ashes rose as I turn toward to face my sister.

“In fact! Don’t touch me with your dirty hands!”

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!. Please.. please...” I begged as I approach my sister again. I can’t remember if she was truly disgusted my present or the soothes that was on my palms.

The next thing I remember was a glass vase flew straight to my face and I was hit head-on and sent me lying on the carpet.

“Look at the mess you’ve done! Get out! Get out! Get out!!!” She screamed.

I ran out of the door without a word and to no destination I have in mind. In the end, my mind took me to the armory and I sat on the floor crying my eyes out. I rocked my time away until I realized my hands were bleeding from the coals I held. Blistering angry red-coated by dark soothes

“Dirty hands…” I whispered defiantly.

With silence as my only accompany and my mind to myself. The creeping anger was bottling up like waves. I could hold it no more as I shouted to oblivion dark sky and I woke up breathing heavily, six years later on my bed. I clutch my fingers, remembering the scars left by the pain. I did not even take off my glove from last night combat.

What did I dream? I’m feeling too much now. Anger? Sadness? Guilt? I can’t remember. I silently thoughts as I undid the glove seeing the rough hands underneath, with short fingernails. I rubbed my dry sticky hands together, seeing, feeling all the scars, uneven skin tones, and callous on my hands.

I stood and walked to the bathroom, silently envying people who remember their dream, they’re lucky. Because I seem to never remember mine.

…..

“Wendolynnnnnnn!!” I heard my mum singing even before I entered the gate. I laugh at her welcome at the doorsteps.

“You’re finally here! What’s this? Oh, there’s no need to bring anything, let me carry these.” Before I even refused, she snatched one of the pumpkins I was carrying.

“You should have never let your mother carry your things for you.” A deep low voice from the living room greeted me.

“Good morning, Sir” I greeted and bow respectfully to my father

“You’re late.” was all how he answered.

I glanced at the clock hanging on the wall. The vertical metallic liquid slowly formed to tell the time. I am 8 minutes before the promised time. I look away from the clock and the liquid flow back to the container.

“You should come earlier to help your mom to clean the house.”

“Yes, sir. I will come earlier next time.” I replied and followed my mom to the kitchen to avoid continuing this dreadful conversation.

“Did he not know I had my ranking combat test last night?” I asked my mom, confused by how my result to rank number one did not impress him.

“Number one? That’s my Amazon warrior girl!” She winked at me

“He did not tell you?”

“Maybe he wanted to tell me when you’re here. Don’t mind him. He was waiting for you the whole morning though.”

“I don’t think that’s a truth you’re telling me, mom… Vee?”

“She’s not coming today, she has this tea thingy thing with her friends in the evening.”

“Evening…”

“She needs the afternoon to get ready.”

“Ah.” I replied, but I was feeling bitter inside. I was practically forced to come home no matter my exhaustion and not being welcomed properly the moment I enter the door. And where does Vee goes? Having a day off for a luxury tea time, picking up dresses, having cakes with some highly painted faces girls.

…….

“I heard you were the best in class. I highly doubt it’s based on your pure skill, just that unfortunate luck you possesses. Just like how you entered the Elite.” My father first sentence to me on the dining table.

“Sir, I have said that I did not perform well on opening day because I hurt my ha…”

“Excuse!”

“nds…”

“I seen you grow up for 20 years. I know when you are making excuses. Because I know you have no right to enter the Elite even if you have duel head on with a true Elite. I don’t know what nasty tricks you’re pulling but I see right through”

“Who wants ice cream?” My mother abruptly cut the conversation. “I want some, get it for me Lyn.”

I push myself up and went to the kitchen. My head hung low and a massive headache is coming. Nothing, and nothing will ever satisfy my father. What more can I do? He didn’t remember I’m just 18.