Killing Flowers

November 16, 2011
By -Hotaru- BRONZE, Shorewood, Illinois
-Hotaru- BRONZE, Shorewood, Illinois
2 articles 0 photos 1 comment

Remember when the skies were blue and the grass was green?

Remember when the people sang and the children played?

Remember when some would live and others would die?

Remember when it was okay to be alive?

Her hands were cold despite the heat that beat down upon her. The sun’s rays bathed her in heat, causing small beads of sweat to form on her brow. Yet her hands stayed cold as she reached out towards the open space in front of her, closing to grasp nothing but the air that escaped through her fingertips. Come back to me, she begged silently, her eyes searching the space in front of her as her arms slowly dropped to her sides in defeat.

Her head dropped as the heat sunk into her body, making her feel as is if she was filled with nothing but intense fire. The sickly sweet smell in the air grew stronger as her breathing became more hurried and desperate. She put a cold hand to her forehead, struggling to take another step forward. It seemed as if every muscle in her body was quivering with strain.

Knees wobbling, teeth chattering, she fought to breathe. Her breath was caught in her throat and for a second she wondered if she was going to choke to death. She licked her cracked lips quickly, taking in a gulp of dry air as she felt herself stumble to the floor. In the distance she could hear the sirens that signaled the end of her freedom. In the distance, she heard the sirens of those that would say they were helping her.

She felt her eyes begin to water and wondered where the liquid was coming from, seeing as how it had been days since she had last drank a sip of the cool substance that would keep her alive. She started to shake, her thin frame moving side to side without her making a sound. She should be crying, she thought, but all she could feel was a numbness and a burning pain behind her closed eyelids.

Come back to me, she thought fiercely, envisioning all those who had left her. One by one the memories of her past enveloped her, showing her everything that she had done wrong, every wrong that was done to her.

The smoke, the strong urge to take another whiff, another sip, another gulp, it was so close. If she could just move her fingers, grab the bottle and bring it to her lips. If only she could move her hands, shake off the sluggish heat and push forward long enough to reach the bag. The need, it was so strong, the only thing she could focus on. But the heat was there too, pulsing around her, pressing against her as she felt her hands grow numb from a coldness that she could not fight.

The flowers on her doorstep, the bright pinks and oranges making her head hurt. Maybe the pain was from the night before. Hazy thoughts colliding together, taking up too much space as she tried to think. Shaking her head, the smell of burning leaves in her hair as she bent down to pick up the vase of flowers.

The sound of his harsh voice mixed with the pounding in her skull, the blurriness of her surroundings as she put the bottle to her lips. The cracking of her voice and the shattering of glass, the sound of slamming doors and the sight of falling flowers. The pain of being broken, the reality of being alone, making everything so much more damn real.

And then everything was gone and she was left with broken bones.

The author's comments:
This is how I remember it, my memoir.

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