“Here we go my pretty flowers,” She crooned softly, watering her flowers. The flowers that were her life, her babies, all that she cared about. No one could hurt her little ones. “I’m going inside now,” she said with a smile, caressing the blossoms.

The young man was going home to his wife. He wanted to give her something, something she would love. As he walked he saw a garden, with dozens of beautiful flowers in it. He smiled, for his wife loved flowers. He walked into the garden and picked a beautiful bouquet.
She had decided to check on her flowers one more time before she went to bed. She looked out the window, a smile on her lips. The smile died, because someone was hurting her flowers.

She ran down the brown dirt path, feet pounding. “Don’t hurt my flowers!” She cried, her hand outstretched. The young man turned, flinched, and dropped the flowers. She was carrying a shovel. She didn’t know how it came to be in her hands, but she raised it and hit the young man with the edge. A line of blood appeared, and he staggered away. She gasped, and turned to her flowers.
The flowers were mocking her. Their upturned faces were smiling, sneering; their bright colors were garish against the brown of the soil. “Stop it! Stop it!” She cried. She could hear their chattering; it was incessant.
“Here we go my pretty flowers. Here we go my pretty flowers,” they chanted…