Withering Lillies and The Weeping Petunia

I woke up earlier than usual again, covered in sweat and gasping for air–it was the last breath I’ll ever take. Another nightmare. The sun’s still hiding under the dark clear sky–no stars as always. Let me guess, another foggy day. I’m already feeling the weight of the day deep in my bones as I rubbed my eyes and groaned out of exhaustion.

“It’s too early for this ," my words were quiet and hushed as I tried to get rid of the crust in the corners of my eyes. A familiar ache in my back hits me like a wall made of bricks. Cold sweat leaks down my forehead, but I don’t bother to wipe it. The sensation somehow makes me feel human. My own person.

The wool pillow I lay on every night was lumpy, the blanket that shelters me from the cold was scratchy against my skin, and the floor beneath me which protected my feet– felt like stone. I was practically swimming in my clothes, my hair full of grease, mind full of nightmares. I shouldn’t complain; my mother was doing the best she could. Better than my ‘father.’

Tantalus Schismatos.

A shitty name, for a shitty person. It fits him perfectly, like two puzzle pieces. Just the thought of the name gave me unbearable chills. I hate the man.

He abandoned me and Mama when I was two, I’m fifteen now. That makes it thirteen years that he’s been gone.

Thirteen years of him being a ghost with a last name. I wish I could erase him from life. I wouldn’t be here and Mama would be happy. I don’t forgive him, he's a selfish, spineless piece of shit, who left my mom to pick up every broken piece he shattered. I don’t miss him. I don’t forgive him. And I sure as hell don’t ever want to see his pathetic amber eyes and white stupid hair ever again in this life, and all the other ones I might be blessed or cursed with by the Gods.

I sat up and I felt my back aching more. “Stupid fucking floor ," I mumbled, but there wasn’t any bite behind my words, there never was. Not when it involves the only person in my life.

To be frank, I would much rather be on the floor though. Mama offered me the only bed but I didn’t want it. Okay, I did want it, but I made sure she had it. She deserves it more than me. She deserves the world.

“Please Keiran, please take it son.” My mother insisted I take the bed, but I wouldn’t hear of it. She had gone through enough. And I couldn't bear the thought of her sleeping on the floor. She’s fragile enough as it is, I won’t stand by and willingly break her down. Not like he did.

When the first light of dawn filtered in, I finally got up, stretching my stiff muscles and listening to the world wake up around me. I smell the sweet scent of the rain that just passed not too long ago and I feel the hard, cold, wooden floor against my palms. The bottom of my legs, and my fingertips. I listen to the beautiful songs the birds sing every morning, songs I feel this petty kingdom did not deserve.

The rooster screeches as the sun peaks from the horizon. The tired and annoyed voices of my people fill the walls on each small house. The gentle and ordinary ‘Goodmorning’ each speak to another. The soft creaking of the carts being wheeled by the villagers remind me of the unappreciated labor we do everyday. And . . . the growling in my stomach screams at me.

I felt immense hunger deep in my gut, so I got up off the floor and stretched for a moment. My fingers intertwined with each other as they reached for the sky, stretching my back muscles and my lips released a soft groan.

I walk over to the two thin rags my mom called ‘curtains.’ Old, dirty, and white. I never liked the color white. Mainly because of Tantalus.

There really was no point in having them, but Mama would be torn if I told her no, they were for my fifteenth birthday. I didn’t have the heart to tell Mama “no.” I slid them open and I’m met with the same fog I’ve been around my whole life. A groan escapes my lips and my hands push my small windows open, flinging out as I welcome in the slight breeze.

I see the small cobble houses in our village. Men, women, and even children flood the streets as always. I look at the different mixes of their skin. Some white as paper and some dark as the night. It was a beautiful sight, beautiful isn’t a word we used often here though.

The stories we didn’t tell were seen in our torn rags. The ones we were given at birth. They were thin but they were clothes.

The rags were only a reminder of our King’s neglect. The village's poverty felt heavier as I grew older. King Tiresias taxed us relentlessly. Without a thought of sharing the treasures he stole from us.

Every morning, I would wake up with the sun feeling like a weight settling over me like a fog. The crumbling stone houses, the thin rags that were our only protection from the elements—these were the walls of our existence. And yet, we were not broken. We made do. But I could see the exhaustion in my mother’s face, in the way her hands trembled when she gathered what little food we had left. I see the usual passing of knights, patrolling the cobblestone streets as normal.

The villagers went about their day, heads down, trying to keep the peace under the watchful eyes of the knights. They weren’t cruel, not like King Tiresias. But I could feel it, the clear fear that ran through our community. Rumors spread like wildfire—whispers of famine. I overheard snippets of conversations about the king’s taxes, his lack of a Queen because he didn’t want to be overthrown, and the heavy hand of his soldiers. But we didn’t speak of it aloud. Not in front of the knights. Not in front of the walls that seemed to listen.

Once I take in the view, I approach a very small table in my room. I had a singular candle and a couple of trinkets as offerings on it. That was my alter. I get on my knees and pray to the Gods. “Thank you for the blessing of another day, thank you for the gifts of sky and land. May you bless me with another day. Thank you.”

When I’m done, I exit my room. I go and greet my mother, but she’s not in the kitchen cooking eggs as normal. Which was weird because she was usually there. So, I went back to the yard, and there she was, sitting in the field. It was her favorite place, especially when she needed to think.

I watch her hands move over the petunias as if she’s trying to weave some sense of peace into the chaos around us. She doesn’t notice me at first, her focus deep, like the flowers are whispering something only she can hear.

Even after all this time, she’s still the most gentle woman ever to exist. I often wondered how many years my mother had spent sacrificing her happiness for mine. Every line on her face seemed to tell a story—one of love and loss, of giving and never asking for anything in return. It was in the way she always put food on the table before herself, how her hands never stopped moving even when there was nothing left to give. I couldn’t tell her I felt guilty, that I hated seeing her like this. She was too proud, too strong. And I loved her too much to break her heart.

“Mama? Are you alright?” I ask gently, trying not to startle her. I go to walk up to her, each step soft as my foot hits the dirt. Suddenly, I feel something hit my feet and I fall on my ass. Stupid curse. Mama turns around with slight concern etched on her beautiful aging face. Her gorgeous brown eyes looked back at me.

“Kieran, are you okay?” She asks gently, softening my attitude just a little. I knew not to be harsh with her. Her soft heart couldn’t take it. I’ve noticed something, a difference between us. She had a big heart, a heart too big for her body. Some might say little body, big heart.

“Yes Mama, I’m alright," My tone was very gentle. Soft, like I was talking to a frightened street cat.

“Honey, the necklace. Please go put it on," I sigh, but I obey. That dumbass necklace. But I need to wear it for the safety of me and others. Specifically Mama. If I ever hurt her, I would never forgive myself. While I feel my shadow clinging to my leg, basically begging me not to contain it, but I don't listen, I never do. The crescent-shaped stone pressed into my chest as I fastened the necklace. Its chill spread through my skin like ice, a constant reminder of the curse that clung to me. No matter how tightly I tried to grip it, it never loosened. The weight of it—cold, relentless—was always with me. The grip of the curse leaves my legs, and I sighed out of pure exhaustion.

Every time I put on the necklace, a part of me rebelled against it. Not because I was afraid of the curse, but because it felt like a part of me was being shackled. My life had been molded by that curse, its cold embrace is a constant reminder that I am not like the others. I didn’t know if it was my fate or my punishment, but I couldn’t escape it. Were the gods punishing me? If so, what for?

I hated that feeling of being trapped inside my own skin. I had never fully understood how the curse worked—why it clung to me like a shadow I couldn't outrun. It was as if something inside me, deep within my bones, resisted the pull of the world, and the necklace was its anchor. But each time I thought I had a grip on it, it pulled harder. Like a beast demanding to be free.

“There. Better?” No. It never was, and it never will. I nodded, forcing a smile. She smiled back, but there was something behind her eyes—something I didn’t quite understand. She looked down at the petunias, then back to me. Her eyes suddenly filled with concern.

“The chickens were attacked last night, they’re dead. I would use the meat, but some animal practically ate it all. Any chickens that remained not completely devoured were ill. And we have no more food and we were barely living off of eggs we already had. I’m sorry darling, I really am." We only had four chickens, they lasted a while too.

“Mama, stop, this isn’t your fault. The chickens were going to die at some point, that’s life. I’ll figure it out Mama, don’t worry about it,” She tried to argue but I stopped her.

“You’ve done so much for me, for everyone your whole life . . . let someone do a thing for you,” I walked back into the house.