Flowers: Whumptober 2019, Delirium

Flowers

Continue on the garden or die, he tells himself. He'll cut himself from being clumsy, or he'll fall, or he'll have a hard time breathing, but he'll still tell himself it. He can hardly stand, but he isn't going to give up. He wonders if he'll die even if he does continue, it certainly feels like it.

The sun hasn't been very kind to him, and he can feel the sun slowly worsening his burns throughout the day as he completes his chores.

He notices the grass looks unusually green today, but he isn't concerned. The sky doesn't even look blue anymore, but he has witnessed more unusual things before. The world looks red and black, but it has been.. Worse.

The tools are heavy and he can hardly lift them. His shirt clings to him from the sweat. He's starving, he's thirsty, and he feels far away like he's drifting on clouds. The world is becoming fuzzy and undefined, but he has learned not to pay it any mind. He talks to the flowers, voice scratchy.

"Hi, Harry!" they say back to him, cheerfully. He smiles at them, happy to have something to talk to. To keep him going.

He continues digging and telling the flowers things, they are rather good listeners. They talk back too, sometimes.

"Tell us more, Harry." He'll gladly oblige.

The world continues to tilt and he can't focus to save his life, but he continues, and he needs this. He needs the flowers.

"You're so nice to us, Harry!"

There's always those few who tell him other things. "Kill yourself, Harry."

"You're such a freak."

"They hate you, we hate you."

But the good ones... "You shouldn't put up with this, Harry."

"You're wonderful. You shouldn't listen to them."

"You're worth more."

The plants, especially the flowers, dance and sing. The pinks, purples, greens, and blues mingling together. They laugh, they play, they tell him wonderful and terrible things. He honestly doesn't mind, or even question, the events. It happens every year. Every year he has to work through it, the heat, the pain, the exhaustion.

He smiles at them when it's time to go back, and they all jump back into their holes, keeping their abilities secret. The plants wave to him and wish him good things. They express their hopes to see him later. Some say other things, but he chooses to ignore those. Or he tries to.

He knows he's worthless, he doesn't need plants to tell him that. Maybe one day he should stop and see if Vernon would go through with his threats, and he might one day.