Page 1 of Cedarwood Cabin

ONE

FLORA

The curtains are open just a fraction to let enough light shine in. I sweat as I lay in bed, my body feeling clammy against the sheets. I slowly raise my head from my pillow and take a deep breath. Images of my mother flash in my head and my heart starts thumping wildly. I picture her weak body, the sound of the medical machines, and the smell of the antiseptic-filled hospital. I try not to panic, but the images refuse to leave my mind. I grip the bedcover frantically, trying to calm myself down. I look around the room at the light purple walls with photographs of my mother and father, the bedside table with clutter, and my makeup desk with hardly any makeup displayed.

It was just a nightmare. Calm down.

I don’t want a panic attack, so I try to calm myself down by continuing to breathe deeply.

The mirror on the closet door catches my attention. I stare at myself; my long, dark, wavy hair tangled from sleep. The freckles across my face stand out against my pale skin. My eyes always manage to catch people's attention. They are different colors: one deep green and the other rich blue. I see a younger version of my mother looking back at me and I feel a lump form in my stomach.

I know it’s painful for my father to be around me. I must constantly remind him of my mother, of what he lost: his greatest love. I know he tries to mask it with a brave smile.

I hear noises coming from the kitchen. My father is up, probably sipping his morning coffee—a ritual he never skips.

I reach over to the nightstand and grab my phone, the mattress making a creaking noise under my weight. I unlock the screen to see no notifications, but I'm not surprised. My social life has been non-existent since I moved from England to Washington with my father four months ago.

Not like it was bustling before—I lived a pretty secluded life. My mother homeschooled me and my only friend was the girl who lived next door, Holland. Since moving, we have drifted apart and hardly ever contacted each other anymore.

My only living family members are my father and auntie, who lives in England. My auntie likes to send letters and care packages, but she feels more like a distant relative than a close family member.

I swipe through my phone and check the local news. The headlines are boring reports of Covid cases rising, a new bakery opening, and a piece about local bikers wreaking havoc. I let out a sigh as nothing interests me, placing my phone back down on the side table. A sense of loneliness washes over me as I get out of bed with another deep breath, rubbing my eyes before making my way to the door. The floorboards creak underneath me as I descend the stairs.

Halfway down, I look over the stairs banister and see my father standing in the kitchen, pouring himself a cup of coffee.

“Morning,” I hear him greet. I watch him as he places a bowl on the table. I continue down the stairs, smelling freshly brewed coffee.

My father glances up at me. “Breakfast,” he announces.

His smile has always been a comfort for me. I sit down at the table and look into the bowl.

“Porridge…Oh, wait. Over here, it's called oatmeal.” My father corrects himself.

I rub my eyes, pick up the spoon, and dig in.

“How did you sleep?” he asks.

“Had another nightmare, so not great.”

We eat in silence for a few moments, the only sound between us is the spoons against the bowls.

“I think it’s best you tell your therapist about the recurring dreams,” he suggests, resting one of his hands on the table.

“I will…” I reply, looking down at the oatmeal.

My father swallows a mouthful of oatmeal, making a gulp sound.

“When is your next appointment?”

“It’s actually later today.”

Dread fills me. I’ve been having therapy since the death of my mother. My therapist is a stern, older British lady. After moving from England, my father insisted I continue my therapy with her, so now we have our sessions over video call.

My father reaches over the table and places his hand over mine. “It’s tough, Flora. I know. However, you’ve made good progress.”

I appreciate his support and give him a nod. I glance at the clock, seeing how many hours I have left before my appointment.

“I’m trying.”

---