Dead Flower (Sequel to The Flower Girl Book Two)

Chapter 34: Out of it

Trigger Warning: Chapter contains childhood trauma and drug abuse.

Andrew

Dragging my feet across the broken glass, the shards claw their way into the palms of my feet. Walking like a zombie, drunk from the bar, I need to feel something. Blood trails behind me, but it doesn't phase me. What do I have to live for?

I often ask myself, what is the fucking point? And why does love have to hurt, but yet is one of the most beautiful things in the world? When I'm outside smoking, I can hear the neighbors yelling at their kids. The couple yelling at each other. Is there love in that house?

Why does happiness come and go? It's crippling to think I can't be alone the way I strive to be. The fact that it's ingrained in my fucking soul to need a companion pisses me off. I wish I could turn the loneliness off. Then I wouldn't need anybody, right? Except, I'll always want my daughter, even if she isn't really my biological daughter.

Veronica and I just aren't meant to be. Maybe I'm the type that shouldn't be in a relationship, but should fuck around. Like how I used to be. Fuck who I want, then leave. Sounds like paradise to any man. But the emptiness is a gaping hole. I miss my flowers. I know I was put on this earth to create. I just wonder what disgusting creature placed me here to suffer. I guess it's all my own fault.

Staunching to that bedroom, the open sliding door catches my attention. Right away I sober up, grabbing the nearest object that acts as a weapon. Peaking outside, I don't see anything. It's a sore state when you don't even want to leave your own home.

It's astounding how someone wants to break into this broken one. If I were to call the cops, they would think the burglar caused this mess. Little do they know, it was me. Outside I check everywhere. We don't have a lot going on out here, and the gate is shut.

I didn't see any cars in the driveway. Either some stranger broke in, or Veronica was here. If only she left a trace of her perfume. The pillows don't even smell like her anymore. They're drenched in guilt, shame and tears. It's like she never lived here. Now she probably thinks I'm really unfit to see Flower.

I picture her face as she walked through the back door. Yeah, I did change the locks. I guess it's because I thought she'd call me to let her in. That I could finally hear her voice. After the breakup, I'm sure she's more put together than I am. Nails and hair done, new outfits, she's probably well taken care of.

Maybe she even found someone else. Someone who won't lash out on her. I'm just the walking dead. Dead to her, but still roaming around this city. We're both frightened we'll bump into one another. I want to be happy for her, but the selfish side hope she's more miserable with some cockhead.

I want her to call me crying, and tell me how much she misses me. I've tried to do the same to her, but she doesn't want to listen. I wish I could convince her that was she saw was a sham. Nothing happened, and nothing was going to happen.

Then it strikes me, was Aubrey here? Was she the one who broke in? I don't know how to get away from this woman. She's the intrusive thought. I hold the shard of glass. I've seen a lot in prison. People made knives with the ends of tooth brushes. Stabbings happened daily. I stayed in my cell, didn't talk to anyone.

If it weren't for Veronica, I think I would have forgot how to talk. Squeezing the glass in my grip, I have to be careful not to cut my hand further. Imagine if she was just hiding out in my house the whole time. I should get a hotel, but with what money? I can't even afford to pay the electric bill.

After the search again, I call it quits. She won't answer, but I call anyway. While I listen to the rings, I spy on the stream of blood that runs through my palm. Breathing answers, "Vee, were you at the house?" My voice sounds hoarse, raw from the alcohol and no sleep.