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He was like a wilting flower. Slowly fading away into the background, though light did kill his shadows from time to time, giving him blissful reprieve, though the times were short and far in between. The poor flower stuck in the back hidden away by much healthier ones.
No sun.
No one.
Nothing.
Just sitting in the back hoping to stay elusive, no one to cut him down. Yet he screams, he screams for someone, anyone to notice him. He screams high and loud for just one small drop of recognition. But, no one sees, no one sees him until he’s nothing but half a flower, bent at the stem. He screams for death and release, but he isn’t granted that either. Deep down he knows he’s not ready to let go yet. His last hope is that no one notices, no one comes to replace him with a prettier, and much more preferred, flower. Replacing a dying Dragon’s Blood with a sweet white rose.
The bleeding of the heart.
The bleeding of the emotions.
The bleeding of the soul.
The bleeding of the Dragon’s Blood, the last Dragon’s Blood.
The lack of sun, water, and love, makes the flower wilt away. Makes any flower die. Makes his very presence silently disappear. Dying…
Second,
By,
Second.
The Dragon’s Blood was always dying, slowly, but fate was cruel. The little flower made friends, experienced happiness. The Pink Rose, the Blue Hydrangea, and the Purple Carnation. He- the moribund flower- made friends with others too, but those moments didn’t last.
And the Hydrangea was taken- taken away, and he could only watch as his hope was being shattered. Even if it was wrong, even if it was frowned upon, he loved that Blue Hydrangea, but what could a dying flower do?
Nothing.
He just stayed, watched each passing day. His presence slowly slipping, slowly disappearing. His end was approaching, for the clock was ticking faster. Death wanted a taste of Dragon’s Blood.
The next day the Pink Rose was taken, the day after that day the Purple Carnation. Day by day some flowers died, while others were whisked away into a safer abode.
Soon all that was left was the dead, and the dying.
He watched from his place as all the healthy flowers were dug out and put into pots, taken inside. He could only watch from a distance as they moved on. Leaving him.
Slowly the flower’s limited strength- the strength he gained from being cared for, from others caring about him- diminished. A greater pain filled his heart. For being left behind hurt him more than being left alone.
All the pretty little flowers watched with sad eyes, watching the trivial flower die. Passed the glass screen, passed the porch, no longer hidden. In the back of the garden, surrounded by old flowers, dead flowers. They watched as his last petal- tear- fall. Before...before nothing. The bend of his stem, the bend of his back. The loneliness- the rejection- suffocating him. As his corpse falls a large, soundless thud, as the stem crashes on the dirt floor. Day by day, a few flowers glance out and see the stem. The browning, decomposing stem. Until all there was left was the memory. The memory of a sad little flower that no one cared about.
But life moves on and waits for no one, so as a present for her beloved, Life sends a gift. She sends a gift to Death, a bouquet with a fully bloomed Dragon’s Blood in the middle. And Death, Death keeps the gift, keeps the gift forever. Never sending anything back to Life, but a whispered wind of a thanks, a small blanket of snow.
And as the young flower, the young man, leaves the world, life goes on.
And you know why?
Because no one cares about a wilting flower.