Who's a good flower?
Out of the corner of my eye I catch glimpses of glistening silver
table tops. I turn my head to admire the pink bonsai trees blooming in the
kitchen window sill and a thought momentarily runs through my head: This all
belongs to me! The coral creeper stretching across my glass roof, the begonia
plant accompanying my Nappa leather couch and the poinsettias blooming joyfully
next to my 8k Ultra HD television. The luxury flows through the atmosphere into
my lonely heart. It gives me comfort and soothes my soul. I am finally at home!
While I proceed to wash the dishes a sudden silence overwhelms me.
It threatens to render me asthmatic. “Hallo Sunshine,” swirls from my tongue to
the white orchids, as I urgently try to resist the isolation. In vain! The
little orchid wriggles its head from side to side. My words swirl around it
like dust, only to be swept away by the cold current outside the house. The
orchid leaves me in isolation. Like a sly thief stealing from an old lady, my
hand moves towards the ignorant plant, quickly plucking off all the worthless
flowers. Now they are lonely as well.
With deep desire I rub my Amaryllis. Its soft petals rub over my
young, soft hands, nurtured with the world's most expensive creams. “Who's a
good flower? You are. Yes, you are,” rushes out of my mouth as I praise the
plant for lifting my self-inflicted depression. Immediately I order my virtual
assistant to order 5 new orchids, ten new amaryllis and 7 more hibiscus plants,
as well as a new silk garment, from Amazon.
Without delay I wash the dishes, ensuring that all the grubby
bacteria are washed down the shiny sink. Pleased, I place the plates on the
drying rack and take an enormous hand-crafted cup filled with Amarula-coffee as
I while away the time. On the table next to me a large ant crawls onto my coral
creeper. It hungrily nibbles the leaves. Quickly, I lean over, squashing the
obnoxious creature with its guts staining my precious flower.
The disgust looms like damp clouds in my house. Who can love a
flower this dirty? My thin fingers angrily scratch the plant's roots until it
falls into a disastrous tangle of branches and leaves and I discard it into the
almost empty dustbin.
A sudden shock surges through my veins when the delivery guy rings
the doorbell. Excitement overwhelms me as I kiss all the new plants and twirl
in my silk garment. Its long sleeves hug my vulnerable body and comforts my
lonely soul. Peacefully, I lay down my head and go to rest…
Screeching sounds penetrate my ears at midnight. Uneasily, I
quietly enter the kitchen. Overwhelming, sharp, needle-like pain shoots through
my ankles as thorny veins curl around me. My kitchen is overgrown with
bushes. I observe how withered and mossy plants furiously crawl over the
kitchen floor. Horror strikes me like a metal hammer. In front of me the
worthless flowers of my orchids transform into a death trap, a Venus flytrap.
Its sharp teeth bites into my thigh and fear cascades over me. In the blinking
of an eye my cut-up coral creeper stoops over my exposed body, slithering its
wet twigs around my elegant neck.
As the sinister plant entwines me, my ankles fail me, and I topple
over. The cold tiles stop my helpless fall and darkness engulfs me. The
materialistic luxury that once gave me comfort has finally overpowered my
Sareez Basson (18 years)