Flowers no longer exist

Flowers no longer exist.

It is essential that you understand that before we move on with the story. The events you are about to read are utterly peculiar and you won’t be able to appreciate their full impact, unless you comprehend this simple truth.

Flowers no longer exist.

They all died mysteriously one day, long before I was born. Some people blamed it on the government and started building conspiracy theories. Others point their finger on celebrities, flying everywhere with their private jets. Still the truth holds.

Flowers no longer exist.

Nothing however could replace them. Women didn’t enjoy receiving plastic counterfeits on Valentine’s Day. Divorce rates have increased massively the last century. Gardens look uncanny and grotesque, endless fluffy green blankets, reminiscing a face with no features.

Most of us have never seen a flower in real life. All we know about them comes from history books and paintings. Sometimes one hears the elderly reminiscing their smell, texture and pastel colours. But people don’t like to listen because they are too desperate to fantasise. Like orphans that never had a birthday party and get invited to all of them, they would much rather not know.

In the end of the day, maybe flowers never existed. Perhaps scientists can prove that they did by executing some sterile academic research. But even then, how do you convince a worm that stars exist using science? Worms can’t read. Words become meaningless. Yet somebody needs to trick orchards to attend birthday parties again for the world will cease to exist. Orphans. Not Orchards.

“Flowers no longer exist.”

“But they did once. I remember how gorgeously your grandma’s gardenias smelled, when spring would come, and the little blooms would sprawl like new-born babies screaming for their mother’s breasts.”  Mother says.

But nobody listens to her. Except me. I have to.

Mother

She was never strict. But her rules were odd.

Most of the time, I wasn’t allowed to leave the house because the world wasn’t the same anymore.

“Nowadays, nowhere is safe for little girls.”

Never. There was never a safe place for little girls, mother. Yet God keeps renewing our life contract and you terminated mine before I could even read.

She rarely spent any time in the house. I resented her for it but never dared to voice my objections. Her nails were sharp like claws and when she dug them in my skin, they became red rose petals. Till this day I still have the scars on my arms.

“For your own good.”

If love was glitter, people would spray it on gutters.

All this absence gave me a unique sense of freedom. Like a balloon that escapes a child’s hand and aimlessly wanders the skies, I waited for something sharp to kill me or wake me up. I slept a lot hoping this day would come faster. But never in a bed. I didn’t need one. I could dream anywhere, and it was a necessity.

My favourite spot was the enormous brown dirty couch, made of slippery fake leather. On the wall behind it, mother had placed a copy of Monet’s Waterlilies.

I used to spend hours staring at it, imagining how it would be if I was small enough to use the waterlilies as mattresses. The petals would be my blanket and the river my mirror. I loved how shades of blue, purple and green danced together in a rhythm intimate and harmonious, while the sun pierced the water, so the reflection of the world would shine.

This painting was the sole jewel of our living room. All the other furniture were old, and anteaten. We didn’t mind. No one visited.

The first bloom

And thus, ten tedious and lonely years passed, till a day dawned that changed my life forever.

The morning sun appeared like every other dawn. I remembered how light rays pierced the living room curtains, making the whole house incredibly hot. I was sweating from head to toe and my favourite brown couch was the only cool surface.

I laid on it aimlessly, staring at the waterlilies, wishing for the river to come to life and swallow me whole. When I was between dream and consciousness, the waves on the painting started marching rapidly towards me. In the end, I could have sworn that liquid was splashed all over the living room, but it was warm and thick like blood.

When I woke up, the room was even brighter than before, but not as warm. There was a tingling sensation on my toes. I thought mother had returned from work and was trying to force me out of bed.

“Mom!” I said trying to get her to stop but the tingling continued.

“Mom!”

I shook my leg violently, until I heard something falling on the wooden floor.

I forced myself to stand up, my mind still hazy and foggy. Curiosity hadn’t won me over yet.

Excitement doesn’t come easily to the dead. By the time I fully woke up, the sun had slipped behind the mountains.

Something strange was on the floor, an object unlike any other. It looked like a green hat on top of an old woman’s head. I took it on my hands to examine it better and soon a tremor so strong overtook me that I had to sit on the cold tiles. I put the strange object on top of the couch and stood there, staring at it in fear it might disappear. One hour passed in that fashion and only then I had the courage to touch it again.

Its texture was velvety and smooth, except the leaves. They were spiky. It had no stem, a baby with no umbilical cord, appearing in life out of whim. Even so, it looked fresh and beautiful. Its yellow fluffy core would make the most glorious star the universe has ever known. And the scent; strong without being overpowering, eerie, reminiscing of life and water.

It’s incredible how an item can be designed simply to smell nice in a way that no one can ever argue about it. Perfection derived from originality rather than symmetry or consistency. This is why we can never be as beautiful as flowers. They were here before us.

I stood on the couch and kissed the painting, but for the first time it didn’t look magical to me anymore. And then I saw it. One flower was missing. I had spent enough time observing them to know they were supposed to be forty. At first, I froze, trying to contemplate what this could mean. Soon, though, I didn’t care because excitement had overtaken me. For once, life was more exciting than a picture.

The price of beauty

When I heard my mother’s key turning in the lock, a strange fear conquered me. I hadn’t lived enough to be able to tell right from wrong. I started panicking and overthinking. Maybe it wasn’t too late to hide the damn thing. But before I could finish this thought, she was already standing in front of me.

In the start, she didn’t even notice the waterlily.

“Are you okay Lilly? What has come onto you?” she asked, laughing at my startled expression.

I didn’t answer. My thoughts were racing and yet, I couldn’t move. A million scenarios ran through my head. Perhaps I could throw the waterlily behind the couch, hide it under my nightgown or lie that it was a replica.

“Did something happen dear?” she said as she took her coat off and put her bag away.

“How was school?” she continued but kept her gaze away from me. I hadn’t been at school for weeks, but her phone was always off whenever they would call her.

In the end, she couldn’t contain herself any longer.

“Lilly! What the fuck is wrong with you? Why won’t you answer me?”

She finally forced herself to look at me and that’s when she noticed the waterlily. Her lips trembled. She took the flower on her hands and sat on the floor next to me. For once, me and her were equal. She shoved her nose right on the small yellow star in the centre, passionately engulfing in its aromas until she sneezed.

“Where? How?” she mumbled.

“I don’t know.” I answered. “I fell asleep and when I woke up, it was there. In front of my toes.”

She put her palms at the back of my neck and pushed my face closer to hers to give a kiss on both cheeks. I tried to hug her, but she pushed me back in fear we might damage the waterlily.

“This is brilliant Lilly. Do you understand? Brilliant.”

“I know.” I replied.

There was something icy at her stare and her skin felt cold.

“Our life begins now Lilly.” She continued and shook her head.

“Yes” I said, and my young mind started dreaming of endless happy days, spent with her and the flower in our crumbling home. We would paint the walls different shades of blue, green and purple and have tea in the afternoons, using her fine porcelain sets that had tulips and butterflies drawn on.

And then that moment passed.

“All we need to do is find the correct buyer.” she said very calmly.

I couldn’t believe my ears. I felt backstabbed like Jesus did on the cross, being killed by his own Father. A miracle had just happened in our little household, yet we were going to give it away for money.

Possession

I wasn’t a rebellious child. Scared of her claws and sharp tongue, I often hesitated to talk back.

But that was when I had nothing of mine in this world. The flower was my first ever possession, a being with roots inside of me. I wasn’t a scatterbrained little girl anymore, but a woman with the ability to create life. Stealing the waterlily away from me felt like a castration, a violation of my inherent right to exist.

“The waterlily is not yours to sell. I made it. It’s here because of me.” I said loudly, unwilling to control my words.

At first, she laughed and didn’t respond. She kept moving the waterlily up and down with her hand, like she was measuring its weight.

I approached, unable to control myself.

“Did you hear what I said?” I asked slapping the flower away from her. She was shocked but more afraid of the damage I might have done. I ran and grabbed the flower before she did.

“You are not allowed to sell this flower. It’s not yours. Make your own.” I said calmly making sure my voice was steady like hers every time she was annoyed.

Once again, she ignored me. Using her claws, she tried to steal the flower away from me, but since she was still on her knees, I kicked her and ran away. Blood came out of both of her nostrils and dripped on the floor. She tried to stop it with her hands, still in shock of what had happened.

I rushed to get her coat for that’s where she kept her lighter. Shoving my hands into the pockets, I quickly recognised the smooth texture. I took the lighter and locked myself in the bathroom. If I couldn’t have the flower no one would. I opened the window that led to the airshaft and touched the waterlily with the flame.

How strange flowers look while burning!

It’s not like wood, which fire dwells on and slowly consumes, until it turns into ash.

My flower seemed like it was transcending to the spiritual world, more beautiful than ever, the flames being the crown of its annihilation. And the smell, conquering my senses, penetrating the walls. The fumes made me feel hazy, so I placed the flower on the bathtub and laid on the floor, praying for everything to end.

In the meantime, my mother was banging the door, cursing me from the bottom of her heart. As the smell grew stronger, so did her rage.

“You fucking bitch! Open the door, you cunt!”

I didn’t answer. I inhaled to fill my lungs with smoke, hoping it would reach my heart. That night I learned how it feels to love something so much you destroy it. Mother and I were now equal.

Annihilation

At some point, her screaming turned into crying and then every sound died. I fell asleep on the floor. When I woke up, there was a black spot where the waterlily resurrected. Not a sound broke the darkness.

I opened the door. There was blood on the other side of it, where my mother had touched with her nose and hands. All the lights were off and there was no sight of her anywhere. I was ready to shut the door and spend the rest of my night in the bathtub, when her hands suddenly appeared, grabbing my wrists, pulling me towards her. Her eyes looked unnaturally swollen and her hair was messy.

She shoved her nails so deep in my wrists, I started bleeding and screamed from pain. It was impossible to escape her. She started shaking me violently back and forth, like I was but a ragdoll. For a moment, I wondered if she always wanted to do this. I genuinely felt scared for my life in a way that only children and the elderly can. In the end, she let me go. I nested up into a corner.

“This was our ticket to a better life, and you ruined it because you like to see me suffer! You do!

Don’t you?” She screamed so loudly the whole building could hear her.

“You are sleeping on the floor tonight, right here, where you are! Don’t move until I fucking tell you. Got it? Ah?”

I shook my head. She left without another word and locked herself in her room. I stayed there till the sun came back.

Blood in the water

The next morning, mother went to work like any other day. I stayed sleepless till she was gone. I felt exhausted and had no desire to fight anymore. Both mine and mother’s blood decorated the hallway, and the hot weather ensured the walls will always remain red.

A ray of sun fell on my favourite brown couch, a beloved devotee ready to numb all my aches. I stepped on it and looked at the painting once again. The waterlilies were no longer white but pink and the river had a strange purple undertone. The stems of the flowers were visible through the water. For once there was a cord between them and the world that created them.

I was exhausted and a strong feeling of sadness resided on my chest, making my breathing heavy and inconsistent. Till that day, I had never known that physical and emotional pain could be interconnected. The painting and its subtle changes didn’t interest me at that moment. I fell asleep at once on my favourite couch.

This time I dreamt that I was swimming at the river and the blood of my wounds was turning the water red. I tried to press my wrists together to stop them from bleeding, but it was impossible. I woke up crying, feeling incredibly miserable because my life was a prison. The only person that could teach me what being a woman is, betrayed me.

My first attempt to create life had led to pain, punishment and bleeding. The possibility that this was the only real outcome terrified me. Would I always have to suffer in silence?

I stood up and turned at the window. It was midday and the sun rays were stronger than ever.

Strangely, nothing in the world seemed different. Nothing in the way the light filled the room and the buildings standing outside betrayed my disappointment to creation. There is never any synchronicity between different human realities. We always remain strangers to each other.

I have always been told that flowers no longer exist. Yet one appeared in front of my legs yesterday. Perhaps we all existed in different dimensions and waterlilies were a vibrant part of mine. Last night though, I learned that some people deserved to be oblivious to that. Flowers are not for those that didn’t earn them, I shook my head left and right unconsciously to lift the haziness out of my brain and connect with my surroundings. Only then, I noticed that right at the other end of the couch, another waterlily had appeared. This time it wasn’t white but a vibrant red. I stared at the painting and the river was a deep burgundy colour, while all the waterlilies looked like blood.

Resurrection

I took the flower in my hands. Its smell was more intense and its petals harsher than its firstborn sibling. I squeezed it in my arms like a baby. The familiar eerie watery smell had disappeared and in its place was tarty, spicy scent, reminiscent of cheap perfume.

When I placed the waterlily back on the couch, a huge red stain had covered my clothes. I touched its petals again and realised the colour was fading on my hands. I rushed at the sink and rinsed it with cold water. The red stain was coming off, making the bathroom look like a murder scene. Soon enough though, everything was perfectly white.

I hugged the flower and smelled it to confirm that everything was the way nature intended. The gorgeous watery smell was back.

I spent the afternoon alongside the waterlily, placing it in a bowl of water in the middle of the floor and sipping tea from my mother’s china. I cleaned the house, showered and put on a new dress with roses printed on it.

I burned the waterlily way before mother was back from work. She didn’t talk to me, and I never told her about my second-born flower. There were still thirty-eight waterlilies on Monet’s painting and all of them deserved a chance to exist, even for just an afternoon. Nobody needs to know. They can all believe artificial perfumes smell better than what God created out of stardust.

From now on, I would only bloom for myself.

Only for me

It’s been a year and there are no more waterlilies on the painting. Aside from a single one, I made all others disappear. Some of them I burned, others I disassembled into petals and threw out of the window. The one that survived remains locked in the drawer of my nightstand and only blooms when I take it out in the dark.

Nowadays, I live with some distant relatives of my mothers. She could always detect the flowery origins of the ashes found around the house, and that made her psyche fragile. It wasn’t long after that she stopped returning home.

My new house is beautiful with many different paintings hung on the walls, some of them depicting flowers. My favourite is a copy of Van Gogh’s Sunflowers, but I never sleep in front of it. I am not ready to birth sunflowers. My single waterlily is enough. Even if it exists only for me, I am happy that this world grants me the right to be different.

Flowers are only real if you believe in them.