A Spring Dream:
The air, once thick with the grief of winter, had thinned into the crisp promise of spring, yet a year passed by quickly, a blur of sun and shadow that mirrored my own detached existence. I turned nine before I knew it. During this time, not much had changed. The bruises from the previous winter had faded into a map of pale scars on my skin, a silent testament to a pain I no longer felt as sharply. My emotions, like my body, had grown calloused.
Father and Edmund were too consumed by the relentless demands of the fields and flocks to take much notice of me. But a shift occurred, not in my life, but in theirs. One day, the heavy silence of the house was broken by the sound of Mother humming a melancholic tune as she kneaded dough, her hands moving with a purpose they hadn't held since Ellis passed. Father's drinking eased, the bottles no longer piling up by the barn door. He began to shower Mother with a quiet, adoring attention, a tenderness I had never witnessed before. Edmund, too, was changed. He wouldn't let Mother carry the heavy buckets of water from the well or lift the baskets of vegetables, his youthful frame taking on the burden with a solemn sense of duty.
I was unsure why their behavior had changed abruptly, but I was happy to have my mother truly see me again. She ran her fingers over the faded scars and healing bruises, a look of profound regret in her eyes. "You poor child," she whispered, her voice thick with sorrow. "Mother is here now."
Where those words would have once brought tears, I felt nothing. The beatings had dried up my tears, replaced by a quiet, resigned acceptance that this was God's punishment for my lie. I simply assured her I was okay. Edmund, who saw the exchange, seemed surprised by my lack of emotion but said nothing. He never asked me why I lied. These small moments of peace were all I cared about protecting, a fragile calm in a world that had become so chaotic.
Soon, however, it became clear why the mood had shifted so dramatically. As the seasons turned, Mothers stomach grew larger, a gentle swell beneath her simple garments. "God gave me another chance, Cassian," she said, her eyes shining with a strange, almost feverish hope, as if this new life would erase the memory of the one we had lost. I wanted to ask why Edmund and I weren't enough, but I held my tongue, unwilling to break this delicate peace. Father still ignored me, but the fire of resentment in his eyes had been replaced by a distant, lingering sadness. I had hoped that through my suffering, he had found some peace, and maybe, just maybe, I could find some too.
It was a crisp spring morning when the midwife arrived. The air in the house was thick with the scent of herbs and the sound of mother's pained cries. They echoed all the way to the barn, a raw, primal sound that was both terrifying and beautiful. I paced restlessly outside with Edmund, unable to go in. When the sweet, high-pitched cry of an infant finally rang out, a wave of relief washed over me. My heart leaped, filled with a new unfamiliar emotion.
Father ran out of the house, his face alight with a joy I had never seen on it before. "It's a girl!" he announced, his voice thick with emotion. Edmund and I embraced, a rare moment of shared happiness. Father led us into their room, where mother lay propped up on a pile of pillows, holding a tiny, bundled baby.
"Come, my children, come greet your new sister, Emma." Her voice was like honey. We approached cautiously. Emma's eyes were a beautiful, shimmering golden-brown, and a wisp of soft, light-brown hair curled along her scalp. Edmund reached out his finger, and she grasped it with her tiny hand, her face breaking into a wide, trusting smile.
I, too, wanted to feel that connection. But as I reached out my hand, Father slapped it away, a look of pure disgust on his face. Mother froze. "Boys, could you leave us for a moment?" She said, her voice sweet but firm. As the door shut behind us, we heard her begin to demand an explanation from Father, the sound of her voice growing louder as he shouted back in disgust. I heard Emma begin to cry loudly, her innocent cries mixing with the bitter shouts of my parents.
I left the house, Edmund following closely behind me. Edmund weakly attempted to defend Fathers actions, "Cassian, don't blame Father, he didn't mean-" he began, but I cut him off.
"He meant it." My words were shaky. "It's fine, Edmund. I'm a big brother now. I can handle it." My voice broke on the last word, and Edmund grimaced, a familiar look of defeat on his face. He let out a heavy sigh, something he had been doing since Father began beating me. As if he was stuck between a son's duty and brotherly love. He walked back inside, leaving me alone by the well.
Father came out moments later. "You'll be helping Edmund with the sheep while I help your mother recover." he said, the first sober words I had heard from him in a long time. "I want you to work hard so we won't go without next winter."
His words were a command that made my body flinch, bracing for a blow that never came. When I opened my eyes, I saw a look of profound sadness and guilt on his face. He looked me up and down, his eyes lingering on the scars that littered my body, a testament to his cruelty. He teared up, then turned away. It was a fleeting moment of vulnerability, but it was enough to show me that beneath the anger, there was a man grappling with his own grief.
After that, my days were filled with work. I helped Edmund with the herding and worked late into the night in the garden, trying to outrun the nightmares that haunted my sleep. Father would often see me working late. He would look sad and seemed to want to approach me, but he never did. Instead, he would leave a bowl of soup or some bread out on the windowsill for me, a silent offering of peace.
I rarely saw Emma. I would refuse my Mother's requests to play with her, wanting to keep my distance so that Father's hatred for me would not taint her. I was content to watch her from afar, a small beautiful flower blooming in our desolate world. I envied her beauty and her innocence, the way she was cherished and loved. In their perfect family, I simply didn't exist.
By winter, Emma was walking and babbling nonstop. This winter was different. It was warm for my family, like the sun finally breaking through after a long, dark season. For me, however, it remained cold and bitter. I was ten by midwinter, another birthday spent in the barn, but this time, I was at peace. Mother tried to say happy birthday, but I left before the words could escape her. Father watched me go, a silent plea in his eyes, but I offered no comfort.
Edmund came to the barn with Emma, bundled up in a blanket. "Happy birthday, Cassian," he said, holding her up to me. She babbled something that sounded like "happy birthday," but it felt empty. I just nodded and went back to fluffing the hay. Edmund sighed, a look of disappointment on his face. He left with Emma, her small hand waving goodbye to me as they went. I waved back slightly, just enough to show her I saw her, but not enough to give her any false hope.
Father eventually came to the barn. "You've really taken to the farming life, my boy," his voice was gentle.
"Yes, sir," I replied, my voice dry. I had come to believe that my suffering was a just punishment for my lie. I was numb to it all now. My father's words, meant as a compliment, felt empty.
He sighed before saying, "Keep up the good work." and turning to head back to the house.
Emma's birth was my family's blooming spring. She was the angel my mother needed, the sweetness my father craved, and the purity my brother protected. And even though I was an outsider looking in, I treasured that spring.