As I take in deep breaths I slowly stop crying and view my surroundings. Behind the heaps of cars belonging to the party-goers is the wide open meadow. I slip my hand into my jacket pocket and feel the bottle of pain pills. The bottle is nearly full and would definitely provide enough drugs to make a heart stop beating.
I make my way to the meadow and as I begin to tread through the field I touch every reachable blade of tall grass that is arising from the melting snow. They feel soft and sticky on my fingertips. The flowers scattered randomly are colors of yellow and purple, I lower myself to my knees to smell their aroma.
I remember when I was eight years old I told my mother the first story I had ever embellished and it was about flowers.
On her birthday I went out and picked freesias and dandelions to make a bouquet. When I delivered them to her they looked a bit disheveled from being plucked out of the neighbor’s yard so I told her that the flowers risked their lives to get to her. When I found them they had come to life and were begging me to save them from the evil beetles that were eating their families one by one. They knew their destiny was for their beauty to be shared with the world, to be destroyed without having a chance to be seen would be such a tragedy.
Knowing they had little time left before they were devoured they decided to try to escape, but the Queen beetle had found out about their plans and sent her guards out to look for them. So the most beautiful flowers among the land burrowed themselves under the ground for an entire season to try to hide. That’s when I found them. They told me to take them away and offer them to my mother so they could spread joy and make someone smile before their final days.
I still remember my mother’s response when I finished telling her my story and proudly handed her the bouquet.
“Did you steal those from the Miller’s yard?” she asked. “Uggh, are those freesias? Gross Zenny, I’m allergic to freesias!” She grabbed them out of my hand and threw them into the trash.
I take in the scenery one last time. I would consider myself lucky to have one of my final memories be filled with perfection.
I bend down to touch a petal of one of the flowers resting in the meadow and I admire it for a few moments. I see a small hole where an insect has taken a bite out of it.
“Damn the queen,” I say.
I continue walking and I reach the entrance to the trail that leads into the dark forest. I look behind me, secretly hoping somebody is following me, but there is no one.
The party house has become a glowing light in the distance. The wind starts to pick up and the only noise I hear is the cold breeze forcing the leaves and pine needles of the plants around me to brush against each other.
I turn back around to face the colossal pines and slowly creep by them as I enter the woods, hoping they do not discover what I’m about to do.