My Flower Bleeds Red

Chapter Two

From my earliest days, I confronted the labyrinthine essence of my existence, etched starkly in monochrome, devoid of vibrancy. This desolate landscape was the very fabric of my mother’s life. As an office worker, she was ensnared in the relentless grind of her profession—a ceaseless cycle of repetition that consumed her spirit. Her days, marked by the drudgery of nine-to-five, rendered her a mere vessel of despair, a constant black cloud chained above her head, slowly washing away whatever colour once adorned her being.

I recall the mournful wail of her alarm clock, a dirge that heralded the dawn of yet another day in her personal battlefield—a relentless struggle to extricate herself from the clutches of her bed and resign herself to the drab reality of office life. Each morning, she sipped her coffee in silence, her gaze vacant as she peered into the abyss of the dark liquid, as though seeking some elusive answer to the entangled web of her despair.

In retrospect, I see that our conversations each morning—and indeed at all times—were scarcely more than mechanical exchanges; her responses to my questions delivered in a flat, lifeless monotone, devoid of the gentle warmth and tenderness one might expect from a mother's voice addressing her child. Her evenings were no different. She would return home exhausted, collapsing onto the sofa, barely acknowledging my presence - a mere shadow in the dim light of her fatigue. Could I have called her a mother? Such a term felt inadequate, almost an illusion. She was a distant enigma, a woman whose essence I had never truly grasped. She was the vessel of my birth, yet her identity remained veiled, a mystery I could never unravel.

One day, I didn’t hear her sighs or the hurried patter of her steps down the stairs. Her alarm blared incessantly, but she remained motionless. That day is etched into my memory with vivid clarity. I initially thought it was another one of those mornings when she stubbornly refused to rise, and I would have to confront her, pushing her out of bed. Yet, there was an uncanny shift in the house’s atmosphere, an unsettling whisper that something was profoundly amiss. Though the house had always been a canvas of muted black and white, a peculiar brightening of colours began to intrude. The white walls started revealing their true hue: a sickly, pervasive yellow.

I rushed up the steps, flinging the door open. There she lay, still and serene—her eyes wide open, capturing a still photo of the yellow wall she was so transfixed by, no twitch, no blink, but with a smile etched on her face—a smile so hauntingly peaceful that it sent a chill through my veins.

In that instant, I understood. She had found peace in the cold embrace of death, a tranquillity that had perpetually eluded her in life. Her true colours had been restored, and she was finally free from the suffocating chains of despair that had seeped into her very being, those dark clouds that had so relentlessly pursued her.

In that instant, I understood. She had found peace in the cold embrace of death, a tranquillity that had perpetually eluded her in life. Her true colours had been restored, and she was finally free from the suffocating chains of despair that had seeped into her very being, those dark clouds that had so relentlessly pursued her.

Amid the days dissolving in the wake of mother's death, an unfamiliar sensation stirred within me. It was not grief in its usual guise. No, it was a morbid fascination, a curious attraction to the release she had found. My mother’s final expression revealed the allure of death—not as a grim reaper, but as a liberator, a seductive promise of an end to all suffering. The notion of slipping away, of evading the relentless pressures and ceaseless demands of life, became intoxicating.

My mother’s death was her ultimate escape, a defiance against a life marked by crushing defeats and relentless oppression. Her passing was not merely an end but a consummation, a final act of liberation. I wondered if, like my mother, I too could find solace in the finality of death. This contemplation aroused a perverse fascination within me. The prospect of my own departure from this world began to excite me. I found myself irresistibly drawn to the idea of death, like a moth to a searing flame. I yearned for that freedom, that ultimate release. The happiness she had showcased in her final moments called to me.

I believe it was this moment, (among countless others), that deepened the grotesque desire within me, fueling a loathsome craving to orchestrate my own demise.