by E. S. Carter
The Definition Of Fflur
ES Carter
The Definition of Fflur
By E.S. Carter
Copyright 2018 by E.S. Carter
All rights reserved.
Cover Design by Pink Ink Designs
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without expressed written permission from the author; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.
All trademarks contained in this book, are the property of the respective copyright holders and have been used without permission.
Contents
Quote
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
T
Y
L
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
F
Y
L
Epilogue
Playlist
Other Books by E.S. Carter
About The Author
Acknowledgments
“A hero is an ordinary individual who finds the strength to persevere and endure in spite of overwhelming obstacles.”
- Christopher Reeve
Nick,
I’ve got them. I promise.
This one is for you.
Chapter One
Today is Anthriscus sylvestris—Ravenswing or Cow Parsley to everyone else. It sneaks out from the cracks in the neighbour’s low stone wall, peering through the crumbling mortar and over the craggy side with deep purple leaves, and pink-tinged flowers.
I pluck a thin stem and admire the small blooms, telling each flower everything that happened today—my last day at primary school. I have nothing particularly noteworthy to confess, and equally, nothing special or memorable to tell the delicate flowers, but I still murmur to the tiny blooms about each part of my day.
I whisper the details in low tones—how I said goodbye to my teachers, how many of my friends are going to different schools next year, and how the thought of going to a big high school worries me because I don't fit in like everyone else.
Before I reach the crooked and cracked steps that lead to my front door, I take out my scrapbook and place the cow parsley between two crisp new sheets of white paper.
I've told the events of my day to the delicate flowers, and they will keep my secrets for me. It's something I've done since I was very small, and I think it's something I will always do. Flowers are more than my friends, they’re my confidantes.
With my precious book clutched to my chest, my feet hit the old flagstone slabs of our front garden path, and I take a deep breath. The air smells different today. It feels like the world is on the brink of something. Summer break’s approach maybe or something else—something that’s nothing to do with the heat or the upcoming six weeks of free time, and the carefree anticipation of an endless summer. Whatever it is, it's impossible to tell, but every cell in my body recognises the difference, and my muscles threaten to tense in apprehension.
Our small terraced house beckons me, and I hitch my floral-patterned satchel over my head before pushing the gate open. Metal screams against metal, and the wobbly fence on top of our low stone wall sways as I wind my way across our wild and unruly front garden. My gaze follows the curtain of Hydrangea petiolaris—climbing hydrangea—that curls up the front of our old house's facade. It makes our small and almost forgettable looking house feel more like a home. It comforts me to know that this house has been here for well over a hundred years and will likely still be here for a hundred years more, and I can’t help but feel our modest home is more welcoming than the row of terraced houses connected to us on either side. The cheerful red painted door begs you to open it and walk in, inviting you into its warmth, and the open sash windows give a peek into a home that is my safe haven. We may not live somewhere grand or fancy, but it's special. So very special.
When I do push the front door open, something's off, I can feel it. That difference in the air thickens and grows stronger, and my instincts tell me it’s a wrongness, a warning. A noise from the living room pulls my feet forward, and I accelerate towards it. My older brother Rhys sits on the carpeted floor with his back against the sofa and his head in his hands, and despite hearing my entrance, he doesn’t move or even flinch. I drop my pretty satchel onto the comfy and well-used leather settee, and it hits the seat with a dull thud, but Rhys still doesn't move.
What's happened?
I take a seat on one of the matching leather armchairs—the one that Dad prefers to sit on to watch the rugby on TV, the one with a dip in the seat cushion—and wait for him to speak.
Rhys and I look alike. We have the same eyes. Bright blue with specks of grey, but his have more flecks than mine.
When he finally lifts his head to look at me, the resemblance we share fades. He looks different. Older. His mouth opens and shuts like a goldfish that’s jumped out of its bowl and is suffocating in the open air. But nothing comes out. No words. No sounds.
My heart frantically beats in my chest, tripping over itself and catching at my breath.
"Did something bad happen? Did someone get hurt?" Oh, my God. "Is it worse than that?”
Please tell me that nobody has died.
He shakes his head, and my next deep but trembling breath doesn't pinch at my lungs as much as the one before.
If it’s not worse than that, we can deal with anything else. Death is finite; all other problems can be solved and made better.
Maybe it's something to do with school. Rhys is two years older than me. Maybe he’s been given a huge summer assignment or had an argument with one of his friends. Maybe he’s been dropped from the team?
Rhys blinks heavily. His eyes are weary, but he's trying hard to recover his control. He finally looks at me with eyes so desolate, I feel my heart clench. Blue meets blue, and the sadness in their depths stretches way past the grey flecks, and has my stomach churning.
"This isn't home anymore, Fflur," he says.
The use of my name instead of my nickname adds a heavy weight to his words. Whatever is upsetting him is serious.
"What? I— I don’t understand." I whisper, needing truth but unable to prepare myself for the unknown despair in his eyes.
The volume of his voice rises, and furious words choke out from his throat. "It means nothing is the same, Flower. Nothing. It means we are broken. She broke us." He points angrily towards the hallway and the empty doorway.
His words don't make any sense. Try as I might, my brain can’t process their meaning.
My entire world tilts and sways as he opens and closes his mouth a few times, starting and stopping and delaying my despair before saying, "Mum and Dad are splitting up and getting divorced."
The “No” from my lips is emphatic. My head shaking wildly from side to side. “You must be wrong."
He must be wrong.
"I’m not. Mum has another man. I overheard it all. Them arguing in the kitchen. Dad storming out. I heard every word."
"No."
I can feel the ground rise to meet me, and I want to tilt myself into its path.
"Don't you get it?" he continues, anger turning his face a blotchy red. "She’s a liar. She’s been living with them as well as us for years. But now she’s decided we’re not good enough. She's leaving us for him. For them."
"I don’t understand? Rhys, you’re not making any sense."
My words are frail, like delicate spider webs caught between one leaf and another as a sharp, cold wind stretches them to snap.
"Mum's job didn't need her to work away every few weeks. She doesn't work in England managing another office. She spends that time with him. With them.”
Them?
For as long as I can remember, Mum has always worked away. Sometimes a week, sometimes two, but she always comes back. Back to us.
"She's leaving because she’s pregnant and that’s something even she can’t hide."
Those fragile webs snap, the delicate strands whip and tangle and shred apart on the harsh breeze.
"He has a son already, the same age as me, and now she's pregnant with his baby."
I recoil from Rhys and his words.
This is a dream. A really bad dream.
"Mum has another son? Does that mean we've got a brother?"
"No. He’s not our brother,” Rhys spits. His hatred for someone he doesn’t even know twisting his face and curling his lips.
“But the baby will be? And it’s not Dad’s?”
None of this makes any sense.
Rhys stares at me with fury etched across his features and his voice cracks when he declares, “I'm staying here with Dad and I never want to see her again. I hate her. I fucking hate her. And I hate them. All of them."
Movement from the doorway catches my eye. When I turn my head, I see Mum standing there. I don’t know if she heard everything Rhys told me, but her face is pale and pinched with hurt. Deep pain and regret reflects in her watery gaze. Her eyes so much like ours—like mine and my brother’s—bright blue with flecks of grey.
We were made in her image, but I don't know how much longer we will call her Mum. She’s abandoning us.
Her arms are wrapped tightly around her middle and I’ve never seen Mum look so small, so lost. She has always taken care of herself and goes to yoga three times a week. Now, I wonder if she ever did yoga at all. She’s pretty, beautiful even—people say I could be her little sister, not her daughter—and she doesn't look her age.
Her skin is clear and smooth, apart from some faint laughter lines at the edges of her blue eyes. I'd like to think we are responsible for all the smiles that caused those lines, but now I can't be sure. Now I look at her and wonder how many of those lines bracketing her eyes—ones just like mine—weren’t because of us at all.
Mum looks from me to Rhys, and the raw sadness on her face sucks away any hope I had left.
It’s all true. Every horrible word.
"Fflur," she says. Not Flower. My real name wraps around my heart like a fist. Never before has it sounded like a curse. Until today.
I look from Mum to Rhys and back again and I feel like they are waiting for me to decide. Waiting for me to pick a side. The urge to run away from here—away from this choice—from them, pulls at my restless feet. I want to find more flowers to tell my secrets. I need to unburden all this confusion and hurt in the only way I know how.
I look at Rhys, then at my mother. Each beat of my heart echoes in my head, reverberating as it hits my skull, and telling me to decide where my loyalties lie.
It’s like picking a team in sports.
Pick me.
Me.
Me.
Only this isn’t a game.
It’s what’s left of my life.
Chapter Two
Achillea Millefolium, or Yarrow as it's more commonly known, is a herb plant that was first used by ancient Greeks over three thousand years ago.
As I walk through the overgrown meadow, I pluck the head of a yarrow bloom—said to heal external lacerations—and I wonder if it could heal the one deep inside me that has cracked, cleaved and torn through my heart.
My father wants me to go and spend the weekend with them. He didn’t try to coerce Rhys, but he had no qualms about making me go.
Where Rhys and I are both dark with Mum's blue eyes, Dad is tall and broad with strawberry blonde hair, and he has freckles across his nose that I loved to count when I was smaller. I even gave some of the bigger ones names—George, Rosie, Peter. I look nothing like him.
I watch in silence as he begins to carefully pack my clothes and place them in my small suitcase. It was a gift from them both this last Christmas and matches the floral satchel I use for school.
I'm not fooled by how unaffected he appears to be. Since she left, everything feels different. Even him.
Mum's gone, has been for three weeks, and he doesn't need to pretend with me.
I tell all this to the flowers clutched tightly in my fist, and the yarrow listens.
Rhys was right, there are defined sides in this family breakup that feels more like a war, and I want to be given the chance to pick my team. I pick Dad. I don’t want to go over there, not alone.
"It's not that cut and dried, Flower," Dad says simply as he focuses on folding my jeans and placing them at the bottom of the case. "Things weren't working between us and hadn't been for a long time." His smile is far too big for his face. It stretches all the way up to his freckles. It's fake, and it hurts my chest.
"Your mother misses you both. She’s hurting about all this too. Don’t hurt her further just because you can. That isn’t you, Flower."
I snort, sounding more like my brother than myself, "It's only been a few weeks. She used to go away to work for longer than this before."
He chooses to ignore my jibe, his hands barely slowing at my words. "She's called you every day since she left, and neither of you will talk to her. Think about that, Flower. Think about her needing to talk to you and neither of you letting her."
"She is responsible for all this. Not me, not Rhys, not any of us. It’s all on her."
I use Rhys’ argument, his words falling rote from my lips, and they taste ashen on my tongue. I wish I could take them back, but they are out there now, between us. This is why I’d rather say these things to my flowers.
Dad laughs, not with humour but with weariness. "We chose to do this, Flower. It wasn’t your Mum alone. It was a joint decision, and when you say stuff like that you just sound like your stubborn brother. You’re better than that."
"Have you met him?" I've heard his name, but I don't want to say it. Max. Plus, referring to him as some random man makes me feel like I’m solidifying my loyalty to my father. I won’t accept him. I won’t.
He pauses with the packing and fiddles with the zips of my suitcase.
"Yeah," he eventually answers but doesn’t look at me. "I knew Max. We went to school together. I met your mother for the first time over his house. They used to be neighbours... and friends."
He continues to pack my stuff, likely because he knows I won’t willingly do it myself, and I watch as he carefully places my newest scrapbook, filled with my pressed flowers, between my piles of clothes. He lays it there reverently as if he knows the secrets it carries.
My secrets.
My confessions.
"I'll try, Dad," I whisper. “For you, I’ll try.”
He smiles at me then. It isn’t his usual easy grin, and his eyes don’t crinkle at the sides. "Everything will be oka
y. I promise."
We’re silent for the short journey to Mum’s new house. Neither of us knowing what to say.
It’s weird to know she was never very far away all those times she was ‘working’. I always thought she went from our small village in Wales to a big city in England on the weeks she went to work, but her new place—where she's been leading another life for years—is just a few miles down the road.
"How long has it been going on?" I asked that day—the day she left us. Dad had come back composed and ready to explain, while Mum had left quietly in the face of Rhys’ anger. He didn't answer. Despite assuring us we could ask anything, there were still things he was prepared to hide. I lost it then and screamed at him, "I want to know how long! If this is the end, stop lying to us."
"I don't want to go," I whine as Dad pulls up outside Mum's new house. “Can we go back home?”
It's fancy, and nothing like our small and modest terrace. It doesn't scream home or warmth. It boldly yells, ‘Look at us. This is why she left you. Look at what we can give her. So much more than you.'
It has a perfect, pristine lawn that glimmers in the morning light like precious stones. Like Emeralds. Compared to the wilderness of long grass and overflowing flowers in front of ours, this place looks like a palace.
