Chapter 1

                                    

                                          
Time couldn't erase grief; it could only allow it to shrivel and wilt like a dead flower shedding its petals. That's what I'd learnt in the months following my mum's death. It made me wonder what I'd be left with afterwards. For now, I had to endure my inner deterioration without knowing what it would leave me with; perhaps a seed, or maybe just a husk. 
                          
I'd tried my best to deal with the poisonous concoction of numbness and excruciating pain grief brought, but I'd failed to find a way out. Most of the time, I felt nothing. I felt fine. I felt normal. That was the unbearable part. Then these pockets of pain would erupt from within me, beyond my control. It was comforting to know I felt something and frustrating to know I wasn't fine and probably wouldn't be for a long while. Getting better mentally would take longer than physically. 
                          
I'd spent the last three months in and out of hospital following traumatic injuries that should have killed me, but I was told by medical staff that someone up there didn't think it was my time yet. Fate, they said. I just hoped they were right and there really was a reason for all of this. A hope, which was probably stupid as I was being forced to move away from everyone and everything I'd known for the past seventeen years. 
                          
I was moving in with my dad on Willow Farm, in the far recesses of the west of England, where the undergrowth was as thick as the mist. My memories of Willow Farm were fond, but few and far between. I was never sure if my scant visits were reflective of a farmer's demanding work hours or my mum's damaged relationship with Dad. By all means, my parents had always been civil when they spoke, but there were always unsaid words drifting overhead. As far back as I could remember, they both made it their goal to avoid each other. A small part of me was looking forward to moving in with Dad and finally getting to spend some time with him. The only problem was I didn't like spending time with anybody anymore, preferring to curl up at home and avoid the outside world instead. 
                          
In the months after Mum died, I became attached to the cool interior of the spare bedroom in my aunt's house. Living with her had been a temporary solution whilst recovering, attending my mum's funeral and going to what seemed like endless hospital appointments. My dad had visited, but as I'd never particularly bonded with him, I may as well have been left alone. Most evenings were spent avoiding opening the bedroom door in favour of running over every tiny detail that my mind had saved for me from that night. When mum died, something inside me got ripped away and I knew, for certain, I wouldn't get it back. My world was lived in monotone now, and as I gazed out of the bus window and watched the scenery blur into one, I was curious to know if colour would return to me someday. 
                          
My head bumped against the dirty glass window, and I absently wondered if I'd have to work on the farm and whether the work would be hard enough to occupy my mind for the remaining days before I had to start college. Whatever the situation, I felt certain Dad would keep out of my way. Mum had left him when I was only four years old, and he'd not been able to look me in the face properly since. Everybody always said how much I looked like her. I guess he lived in his own realm of pain involving my mum. 
                          
The bus came to a brisk halt and I had to grab the seat in front to stop myself from hitting my head. The old lady beside me mumbled something in her thick country accent, but I couldn't bring myself to respond. She hobbled to the doors, which opened with a gust of wind, flicking my hair around my face and making me shiver. Pulling my hoody around me, I watched as the old woman mirrored me with her lilac trench-coat. Where had the summer gone? It had passed me in a frenzy of scattered emotions and well-meaning words from friends and strangers alike. I'd lived in a surreal reality. Even now, I felt like my mum's death hadn't entirely entered my conscious mind. 
                          
I felt numb and I felt guilty for not feeling more. Yet, the overriding emotion I felt in the quiet moments throughout every day was terror. I was utterly terrified because I couldn't remember a single thing about that life altering night. Had I forgotten possibly the most significant moment in my life?