P R O L O G U E
The sound of a car puttering up the driveway immediately alerted my senses. Dropping my game console, I drew open my curtains a tiny fraction, which faced my neighbour's, and hesitantly pressed my nose up against the window.
How I wished I hadn't been so curious.
It almost seemed as if everything was in slow motion. She stepped out of the car slowly, dabbing a white handkerchief to her swollen, tear-rimmed eyes. Clad in her little black dress, her petite, frail, broken self looked as if her wobbling knees were going to give way and collapse any minute. It all made my heart clench tightly inside.
She didn't deserve this much pain at such a young age. No one should ever have to go through the ordeal she did.
I see her melt unceremoniously into the arms of her elders clad in similar outfits. I instantly felt a pang of guilt that started eating me away inside. I really should stop being so nosy.
I drew my curtains and quietly made my way to the door. Running stealthily down the vast hallway, I stole into my mother's bedroom.
My eyes fell upon the floral vase that stood proudly on her dresser. Several stalks of roses, crimson red as ever, stood solitarily but on the mere verge of drooping.
A sigh, barely audible, escaped my mouth.
The lack of attention my mother paid to it came to this, despite being a florist. I guess she was too preoccupied with the thousands of flowers in her shop. I was the one who was always fascinated with flowers, and watered them every day. It didn't really seem appropriate for a boy my age to have such a habit.
My fingers grasped hold of three stalks and a yard of pink satin ribbon that laid carelessly on the ground. I've always hated art and craft; always have, always will. But the disturbing image of her who used to laugh like a thousand tinkling bells pushed my inner self.
Desperately trying to copy what I've seen my mother do before a thousand times at her shop--snipping the end of the stalk slantways and cutting a triangle at the end of the ribbon before tying a butterfly bow. I snipped frantically until I was satisfied.
This time I drew open my curtains completely, determined. Her windowsill wide open, and her room eerily quiet. She's probably downstairs.
Good god.
It was an immense jump. And I had a pathetic fear of heights.
But right now, none of those were my concerns.
My feet left the ground.
My fingers latched upon her balcony rails; just barely.
And I laid the roses on her windowsill.
