1
A man wakes up in his room. Sunlight creeps through the curtains onto the scattered clothes on the floor. The man gets up and sees on his desk a pink flower. He pulls the stool from below his desk and sits in front of it. After a moment of awe, he picks the flower. And it wilts in his hand.
Then the man goes to work.
Everyone is holding their flowers. Some have it in vases, glasses, as hair ornaments, or simply just holding it to show off. Various colors, a couple pink flowers like the one from the morning. When the man sees how happy they all are he decides his goal is to pick the pink flower.
The following mornings, more and more pink flowers started appearing in his room. The second day, there were two flowers, and three on the third, and four on the fourth, and so on and so on.
And every day he would pick every flower. And every day every flower he picked would die shortly after.
Days and days go on like this, where more flowers grew and more flowers died. The man had started waking up earlier in the day, knowing he’ll have to pick every flower.
And he did, every day. But it was exhausting. One day however, something happened. A pink flower bloomed on the desk, there were flowers everywhere. Floors, walls, on the bed even, but the one on the desk felt new. And he picked it, and it lived. The man ran out, rushing to put on his shoes but before he knew it, the flower had died. Again.
‘I hate this.’
The man loved picking flowers, but now it was a pain. Every day he picked a new flower but every day a new flower died. He knew that someday he will have picked the flower, he knows that if he keeps trying he’ll have his flower. But it’s exhausting, it leaves a toll.
Then a blue flower bloomed. On the ceiling, it can’t be reached without standing on something or using a stick to touch it. The man stares at the blue flower, this is the easy path out. But a blue flower is an omen. No one likes them and people with blue flowers aren’t even around. What will he talk to people about with a blue flower? He ignores it and his days of flower picking keep going.
Every day.
Every day one more flower.
Every day one more dead flower.
Every day one more dead flower that he picked.
Every day one more dead flower that he killed.
Every day.
But on this day, as he is standing on the stool, he looks at the blue flower that appeared long ago. After an hour, he has picked most of the pink flowers. The room, covered with dead flowers. Two flowers remain, the blue one on the ceiling, and the pink flower on his desk. He feels different today. He could pick the pink flower, but what happens when he does that is unknown. But he knows when he picks the blue flower, it won’t die. He has a feeling about it. This is a safe and easy guarantee for him.
He won’t talk to people but people will talk about him.
He grabs the stem of the blue flower, and let’s go. The stool beneath him falls over but his body doesn’t follow, as it hangs there.
The sunlight creeps in, shining on the now wilted pink flower.
The End.
