The Absence of Flowers

Amelia hated walking to school.

She hated the cold, creeping morning air. She hated having to slug on her mother's rusty orange parka from the nineties that smelled of cigarettes, even though nobody smoked. She hated jackets. She hated the bushy, blind corners she mustered the courage to walk around each morning. But, sometimes, Amelia wished for a car to come whipping around the corner like a bat out of hell and catch her off guard. And today might've been one of those sometimes.

Amelia trudged down the uneven road, mumbling, "Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen..." counting the flowerbeds that dotted the streets, or what was left of them after spring and summer. It seemed that the conclusion of summer put a hex on the soil, transforming the kind, innocent flowers that once flourished into nothing more than a heap of ashy dirt and withering stems. For some reason, Amelia was affected by this. She grieved for the flowerbeds, like a widow peering into their dead spouse's coffin. It was a feeling she couldn't shake. Amelia hated this most of all.

Amelia didn't really have friends anymore, either, and wasn't very good at making them. The few she had before didn't quite understand Amelia, even after knowing her for quite long time. They'd say she changed, but they just didn't seem to understand that she had to spend a lot of her time with the boy. I mean, he was her boyfriend.

Amelia never really thought of him as just a boy, he seemed a lot more grown up than that. He was tall, polished, and dressed like a businessman on casual friday. Usually, he sported a steel grey argyle sweater, khaki pants with neat pleats, and smart shoes that turned just a little bit outward when he walked. But, most predominantly his sharp-edged, onyx black trench coat that hung over him with the pride of a king's robe. Each fold, each crease, gave a haunting, perpetual presence to the coat, something which not only frightened Amelia, but fascinated her too.

He was peculiar. He even had a peculiar name. Hell, he was a walking, talking contradiction. He was very wealthy but extremely frugal. He hated buying things, but had no problem breaking them. He was a Christian who only sinned. A valedictorian that hated school.

As her walk dragged on, she tried not to think about those meetings with the counselor, but did anyways. Her office was smaller than a prison cell, smelling of artisan-grade cinnamon tea, neat stacks of pamphlets hoarded on top her desk and collecting dust on the windowsill. Inevitably, the young counselor rattled off her list of concerns as if she was scolding Amelia, "You're sleeping in class... You're not doing the assignments... participating in class.... You're leaving class unexpectedly... Sometimes don't even show up... Quit playing sports... Haven't been eating lunch... Get a handle on your disorder.... " The counselor's accusations turned into mumbles as Amelia slowly tilted back her head, staring at the dotted ceiling, hoping that if she stared long enough that this visit would be over. Just like her friends, the counselor didn't understand. It was so simple. He was her boyfriend.

After Amelia rounded the first and arguably most treacherous blind corner, she wished to stop a few houses down and knock on the door of the tiny, grey house with questionable lime green trimming. She longed to knock excitedly on the door, hearing the yapping of the little dogs that stormed the window, booming footsteps coming running from the back of the house to greet her at the door. Some of Amelia's fondest memories started this way, as the tiny house belonged to Amelia's once best friend Daphne. She had short-cut burgundy hair that framed her face perfectly, and thin green eyes that stared at you like those of a friendly snake.

As young children, they would spend hours walking up and down street after street, "borrowing" flowers from their neighbor's flowerbeds to play one of Amelia's favorite games, he-loves-me-he-loves-me-not.

She remembered one of the times she was faced with the verdict that he-loves-me-not, how she'd pluck a petal from a neighboring flower and hold it to hers.