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Lisianthus

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: December 23, 2018

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Submitted: December 23, 2018

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It wilted. But it did not sleep. It cast deep shadows to cool down the sun’s soft, beaming light. And let go of pretty pink petals to kiss the ground, to embellish the grass around its color-drained body- to dance in the breath of air. A swing from an outstretched branch swayed ever so carefully back and forth. The back and forth creaking was the morning’s haunting silence, touched with an alluring, melodic trance. 
She put out her hand. She inhaled the crisp, invisible life. So then a petal … it swirled with indifference to reach the palm, and her little fingers closed around it without a thought, but with every care. She took a step under the shade, the shade which reluctantly drew her closer. She opened her hand, whispering close to the petal she held, until a gentle wind pushed passed her, and she let the petal become an element of the wind. She watched as it dipped and swerved, gently, freely, and then lifted herself to sit on the swing of still time. Her toes, exposed and brushed with dirt, skimmed the ground beneath her. She extended her legs slowly, and then tucked them in fast. Now she could be free like the petals and move through space. Her curled, strawberry blonde hair flew back, and then rushed forward to hug her face and disturb her sight. Her eyes closed to show little prickling dots of colored light as if they were patterns of play. Black. Orange. Red. The mind-with sight- a curious thought. What was it she couldn't make out, couldn't see? Regardless, she was happy, small, and smart -though she knew nothing else but to giggle and smile like a child, and love every second of her life. 
Come inside now, baby. You need to eat before we leave this morning.
Okay Mommy.
Clouds became a burgundy hue as they briefly blinded the sun’s stare. They forewarned of distant rain, showers of grief and showers of frowns from the children who would have to play inside. Lisianthus wearily watched the glooming sky as the swing took her low and high. The clouds passed to release the morning's light, rising steady from below the line of distant, visible earth.  Worries of a dampened day faded fast: a swift correlation to the speed of tucked in toes. 
The warmth on Lisianthus's neck and face reminded her of Mother’s voice caressing her ears moments before, and she nodded towards the sun. It was time to go inside. Lisianthus hopped to the petal stained ground and skipped across the grass. She turned the door knob of her home, excited for the day, and reached the kitchen where her mother was setting out a plate of eggs and toast. 
Would you like milk or orange juice, Lisianthus?
Orange juice!
She plopped into her chair as her mother went to pour her the juice. Lisianthus picked up the worn silver fork, staring into it as if it were a mirror, but the reflection was distorted. So she began to eat.
Mommy, where did daddy go? Is he gonna go to the park too, Mommy?
Her mother set down the cup and pressed her lips to her daughter’s forehead.
Daddy isn’t going to be with us, it’s just you and me.
Okay Mommy.
Her mother moved toward the dishes in the sink, picking them out of the soapy water and drying them with an old rag. She placed aside a plate, and then another, and then another. And after she slid the chef’s knife across the rag, peering down to the submerged cutting board, she twisted her head in the direction of her daughter. Lisianthus, chomping lazily on scrambled eggs, stared intently at something below her tiny feet.
Mommy, you spilled ketchup on the ground when you was eatin’ before?
Oh my. Oh my! Yes. Yes! Let me clean that up. 
She walked over with the rag and mopped up the mess. Lisianthus’s mother started towards the sink, but paused… thought for a moment… tossed the rag to the counter, and stood behind her daughter’s chair, softly running her trembling fingers through her little girl’s hair. 
I’m sorry about Daddy, baby…
It’s okay Mommy, maybe tomorrow he can be with us!
She choked hearing those words, closed her eyes tight, and kissed the top of Lisianthus’ head with uncomfortably dry lips. She was perspiring. Thinking. Thinking. The clang of fork to plate. Listening. Breathing. Low resonance of laughter in throat. Then silence. Breathing. Silence.
I love you.
I love you Mommy!
Wild with sick fantasy, dear mother sliced the throat of Lisianthus. Turning away only briefly to place the knife beside the blood soaked rag from moments before, her attention returned, like a snap of the neck, to her daughter sliding down the chair, gurgling blood and twitching severely. Once limp, she carried her cute, cut body outside, and sat her on the lap of her father, the dead body on the other side of the petal tree. 
Mother was mourning with laughter. 
Mother had her husband's black Colt 1911.
 
Muffled was the sound of a gunshot as burgundy clouds let down their tears.


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