Flowers

I can’t tear my eyes from the scars on the bathroom floor and wall, heart racing and mind spinning. This needs to be taken care of. Perhaps I can get a cupboard or something to hide it. Some new towels too. The expensive, extra fluffy, purple ones. The ones you longingly stroked each time we went to the store. Why hadn’t I bought them before? Would they have changed anything?

Suddenly I can’t even stomach looking at the new shower so I just leave the toiletries in a mess on the sink. In the mirror, my face has a pale, sickly, almost greenish tint. I quickly look away before retreating and closing the door behind me.

Now what? Though I’m dead tired and really don’t feel well at all, it’s far too early to go to bed. Dinner?

Just the thought of food makes the nausea rise higher in my throat, and the fridge is pretty empty anyway. But I should drink something, so I fill a large glass with water and bring it to the living room. Press the remote to make the TV spring to life.

Two colorful pillows with rabbits on them lighten up the otherwise classical dark sofa. Pretty, soft, and inviting, though the lump in my chest grows heavier as I look at them. Colder.

Bun… bun… bunnies. I bought them for you. For my bunny…

Since I’m shivering, I should get a blanket and perhaps turn the heat up a notch. The radiator is cold to the touch. Did the landlord turn it off? No, it’s on max already. I turn the knob back and forth a few times, hoping to trigger it into producing some warmth. Goosebumps are spreading on my arms and back, even under my long-sleeved shirt.

Back in the bedroom, I peel off the sweater and the stiff jeans I traveled in and look for my pyjama. Then, almost guiltily, I open a different drawer. There, like a hidden treasure, lies an old, worn, oversized t-shirt. I pick it up, press the soft fabric against my face and inhale deeply, greedily.

It still smells like you. Like lilies and roses and a sleepy, warm body.

Warm tears try to rise in my eyes, but I blink them away. Your t-shirt… I put it on, and it’s like a whisper of the past on my skin. It’s much too big on my small frame, covering most of my thighs, only revealing bony knees, thin calves, and scrawny feet. The purple nail polish on my toenails is flaking already. How long has it been since I put it on?

The droning voice of a news anchor reaches me, bringing me back to the present. The news. As if the world is still the same? As if nothing happened? As if it still matters?

You’re not here.

Grabbing a blanket from the bed, I head back to the sofa and keep clicking between channels and streaming services. The sofa is too big. Too big for just one girl. A girl with only a blanket to keep her warm. Not a soft body, no one to mock wrestle for the remote, or argue about movies.

Rom coms… I find a truly heinous-looking one – one I know you love – and click play. Pull the blanket up to my chin, lean my head on the bunny pillows, and try to relax as a merry pop intro fills the room. The plot is as dumb as I imagine, and my eyelids grow heavy enough that I have to close them.

I awake in a dark room, the scent of roses and lilies so strong my sleep-fuddled mind makes my hand reach out… but you’re still not here. Instead, I grasp my phone and blink owlishly at the bright screen. 11.58. Almost midnight. The TV has switched off. Wrapping the blanket around myself like a robe, I shuffle to the bedroom, crawl into bed, and fall back into blessed nothingness.

*

No alarm today, I don’t have to be back at the library until Monday. Today is Friday. Out of habit, I open PhoneWatch, waiting for the two dots to appear on the map. My phone is here, of course, the dot blinking slowly over my building. The other dot…

…is not here. You’re not here. The dot marking your phone is at the edge of the screen, on the outskirts of the city. In your parents’ house. It doesn’t belong there. It should be here with the rest of your things. The ones I saved. Some of your favorite clothes. A notebook with your poetry. Some makeup, and the perfume you always wear. They’re still here where they should be – but you aren’t.

I may not have work today, but there’s something else I always do on Fridays; I buy you flowers on my way home. Today I go straight to the store, a different one than the one I usually go to.

“Here you are, Miss.” The woman on the other side of the counter hands me the bouquet with a smile. “For a special someone?”

My eyes meet hers for a fraction of a second so I smile, nod, mumble something hopefully appropriate. My greedy hands tighten around the pale paper wrapped around the stems. I don’t know what the flowers are called, but they’re beautiful. Like you. The florist did a great job putting them together. I asked for a mix of all the purple flowers the store provided, and one red. Like a drop of blood in a stormy sea.

“Yes, a very special someone," I confirm. "She loves purple.”

“Then she’ll love them, I’m sure. You chose well.” The words echo in my mind as the door closes behind me. I chose well. I always choose well for you.

A brief pause to inhale the sweet scent, quiet appreciation of nature’s art. You’ll love them. The ghost of a wind caresses my neck, reaching under my hair, sending chills down my spine. Like when you place your chin on my shoulder, and your breath tickles my skin.

Reluctantly my eyes open to the busy street. People moving purposefully toward wherever they’re heading. Home, work, loved ones… The too-long purple skirt flows like waves around my legs as I walk, equally purposeful, bouquet cradled gently against my chest.

The walk isn’t far, just a few blocks. Soon, the low stonewall is by my side, letting me see the many trees, still in the pale green of spring. Minutes later, I pass the iron gates. The gravel paths are neatly raked, the grass freshly cut, beds filled with colorful flowers defying the last of the chill clinging to the air. Guided by my heart, my feet know the way. Carry me there while my mind watches, numbing down in preparation.

My body knows what to do. Removing the wilted flowers, filling the sturdy stone vase with fresh water, and arranging the fresh bouquet in it. Placing it on the ground, the intense colors a stark contrast to the pale marble of the stone.

Other flowers are already here, soft yellows and pink. From your parents. Parents who never cared enough to know your favorite color. My fingers itch to take the offending offering. Tear it into pieces, spread leaves and petals over the grass as if they were never here.

I don’t. Drawing unwanted eyes leads to no good. There are limits to the drama one is allowed when separated from one’s love. So I don’t scream, I don’t cry, I don’t touch the pale flowers. I quietly kneel, reaching out to touch the largest of the purple flowers, smiling softly.

This would look beautiful tucked behind your ear, or fastened in a clip to accentuate the honey brown of your hair… either in the heavy, long braid I love, or quickly put together in a messy bun. Bun… bun… my bunny…

“I brought you these. They smell like you, only not quite as sweet.” My voice is low, not cracking, and my hands are steady as I light two sticks of incense. The smoke dances in lazy circles while the sun moves above us and the shadows grow longer.

I do not touch the stone. Do not read the words engraved into it. I don’t have to. They’re etched in my mind, in my soul. Not with a chisel, but with burning rage.

Nina Ward

2002-2025

Beloved daughter

Daughter. Not loved one. Not partner. Not girlfriend…

Daughter.