the flowers are dying
Returning home is always unpleasant. I’ve made a jail out of a house, and the time I’m allowed out feels more like an inmate allotted their two hours in the prison yard than a fun excursion. When my time is up, I return to my cell—somehow bleaker than I left it—my mind alight with passive dread. This is all thanks to The Voice.
It’s hard to describe who they are exactly, but all I know is that they appeared sometime when I was a teenager. The first time I succumbed to the Dark they arrived and pulled me back, a soul tarred and fettered, begging for a release that would not come. They rescued me and have been chasing me like a shadow ever since. At first I thought they had come to offer me relief, but it didn’t take long to realize I had found a demon in that place, and it was masquerading as a saint.
Usually, I spend my days stumbling between worlds—one on the outside that is spiteful of my existence and gores my body with its resentful will and one I’ve fabricated within that cradles me and nourishes me with joy. The Voice’s job in all this is to be my keeper; they watch without consent, making sure I don’t find any untapped bliss while lost in reverie. When I do, they make sure to tear it from my hands as if to punish me for a sin I never committed.
“You’re late. Don’t you know you have work to do?”
I’ve learned from years of confrontation that there’s no use in getting emotional in any of my conversations with The Voice. They, on the other hand, remain unwavering in their attitude: cold and patronizing with an arrogant confidence inspired by years of win after win. All I have to show for my efforts is a pair of scraped knees that never healed, so I’ve learned over the years it’s not worth the energy to keep trying to fight.
“I can’t believe you went to the bookstore! You don’t have a job right now. You can’t keep spending money like this.”
Walking towards my room, I tried to swallow my frustration, but as I began to pass the coffee table something caught my eye. It was an ugly display—a vase of flowers and a rock. The flowers had been left to rot, dying where they stood, and the stone was a crude addition that seemed to serve no clear purpose. When was the last time I replaced the water? Wait, how old was that bouquet? Didn’t I just get it the other day? Where did that rock come from anyway? Surely, I didn’t put that there.
“You’re supposed to be applying for jobs. I mean, jesus christ! You’re not going to be able to keep living if you don’t find a job,” The Voice clamored on in the background, their temper rising.
I started to respond, but something about the rock kept tugging at my attention. It not only looked like it was placed there intentionally, but it looked like it had been set up as part of this scene to catch my attention, specifically. And something about its unnatural shape made it seem like it was begging to be held.
After a slight pause, I turned away from The Voice and walked to the corner of the table where it was resting. Reaching down, I grasped the stone and held it in my hand. To my surprise it fit comfortably in my palm as if it had been chiseled down precisely to the contours of my hand. Its appearance was fairly unremarkable save for its jagged edges which read like shards of broken glass and sandpaper on my fingertips.
Then from nowhere a thought flashed into my mind. The Voice had a knack for bullying me and running my teeth into the ground with nothing but their words like a hand to the back of my skull, ever so eager to introduce my face to the pavement. Words were always all I had to spar with, too, but now I wielded a real weapon—this rock—and I doubted The Voice had never seen how scrappy I could be if it came to it. The stone was placed in front of me for a reason, and maybe this was my way to end them once and for all—to pummel them back into the dark from which they rose so many years ago.
I began to feel an uncomfortable tickle in the pit of my stomach. I was getting giddy at the thought. In a flash of adrenaline I saw a new life where I could experience joy, I could do whatever I set my mind to, and I could make choices unencumbered by the punishing grip of constant dread. It could be mine; all I had to do was kill The Voice—it wouldn’t even be that hard. After all, a barrier of words wasn’t going to stop a rock from careening through their brain.
The entire living room and all the furniture in it were made of hardwood, too. Who cared if it all became dressed in the guts of my greatest torturer? It all could be cleaned up with ease. And if I got blood on the flowers, it didn’t matter. The flowers are dying anyway, I thought, I could just throw them away, but who knows? Maybe a few drops of blood would bring them back to life! Hah!
In my ravenous stupor I began to chuckle to myself. And without another thought I clenched down on the rock and swung full force, aiming at my skull. I pressed my eyes shut and held my breath, millions of images rushing like a highlight reel behind my eyes. But the feeling faded as quickly as it came, and when it all went dark I realized I felt nothing at all. There was no crack, no pulse of blood geysering from my temple; all that remained was a numbing stillness.
“Are you even listening to what I’m saying to you?!” The Voice was now agitated, the words burning as they rose from their lips.
I opened my eyes and looked down. The flowers remained undisturbed. They stood stiff in their vase begging to be resuscitated without a drop of blood to sate them. And beside the vase laid the stone, somber and motionless.
“Of course,” I replied coolly. I grabbed the bouquet, walked into the kitchen, and tossed it into the trash can, “You’re right.”