Wilted Flowers

Wilted Flowers

“My mother didn’t like me very much. She never stated it, but the things left unsaid sometimes speak the loudest. My last memory of her is when I was little girl— I can never remember the exact age, but I know it was during that precious time where you think the world is perfect. It’s the sensitive age that teeters dreadfully on the fine line that stands between happiness and realizing that this world is the epitome of a shattered dream. Anyhow, we were in Kansas. We lived in this cozy little one-story house over by the orange groves, and it felt like each day was…a gift. But let me tell you, my little bubble got burst in the blink of an eye. I was sitting on the couch one day, swinging my miniature legs and eating a grape popsicle. The heat…goodness, the heat was unbearable. It made all the grownups so angry, they were all on edge. Kansas was all I knew, all my parents knew, but for some reason…we just, we could not get used to that heat.


Well, as I sat there on our awful, dingy couch, my parents argued relentlessly in their bedroom. I mean, I heard it, but I disregarded it. They were constantly at each other’s throats like petty siblings, but then they’d make up like lovers. They were passionate people, my parents. So anyway, my mother came frantically running at me. Tears were running down her face and she just looked so afraid, so stricken with fear that she began to lose all control of herself. I remember calling out to her, ready to embrace her, but right before she reached me, she froze. Just like that, in midair, my mother froze. And then, she collapsed on me. To be quite honest, I don’t recall anything after that. I just know that when I was finally brought back to life, my parents were dead. They say my father stabbed her and then stabbed himself. Since then, the biggest mystery of my life is their fatal argument. It’s like the five W’s are constantly replaying in my head; who, what, when, where, why? Who, what, when, where, why? Who, what, when, where, why? Anyway, my main goal in life is to be happy. I’d like to feel as free as I did back in Kansas, but everything feels so different now. Everything is…dismal. My parents are dead, I was brought up in a disgusting foster care system, I’ve never truly amounted to much, but the reason I feel unhappy isn’t because of me. I’m at peace with myself. I’ve learned to accept myself for everything I am, and everything I’m not. It’s the world that’s problematic. This world is filled with so many people, we are all so different and can learn so much from one another, but everyone hates each other. That makes me sad. It makes me feel like there isn’t a real thrill in life, no true desire. So, for years, I chased it. I searched every crevice, every nook and cranny of odd places, actual people, and professions for something that alluded to…love, real love. Once I realized that I wasn’t going to find it, I became an escort. I don’t think there’s anything more thrilling than being an escort. My whole life, I’ve received endless compliments about my beauty. Some say it’s ravishing. Whenever I look into the mirror, I see my mother. She had long, dark hair that intensified the blue in her eyes. She had these beautiful, beautiful eyes. They reminded me of a deep, euphoric ocean, and each time I looked into them, I’d just get lost. Even when she was mad at me, which…well she was always mad at me, but even then, I’d look directly into her eyes and I would remember why I loved her so much. She would only have to smile to bring out the weakest emotions in a person, especially my father. I often wonder if I have a semblance of her influence, but I don’t believe I do. A person like that is naturally charismatic. Her bouts of anger would prove otherwise, but I know she was had a lovely soul. Don’t get me wrong, I know my mother loved me, but I don’t think she particularly liked me. The attention my father gave me was too much for her to understand. It’s like she wished I had never been born just so she could have him to herself again. I didn’t think that back then, of course, but after endlessly replaying the scenes of my childhood over and over again in my head…I began to notice things. Anyhow, now I just stare into the eyes of my clients hoping to find an ocean as big as hers.”

“In your line of work, don’t you have to be charismatic?”


“Darling, prostitution doesn’t open it’s doors for anything but money. I’ve been successful simply because I’m told I’m beautiful, so I act that way. With that being said, I suppose I have my parents to thank for supplying me with something useful.”

“So, what’s next for you?”

“Show business, honey. I’m going to be perform for people all over the world. It’s going to be fabulous. Now, hurry and take my photo so you can say you knew me before the glitz and glam. Won’t that be grand?”


15 thoughts on “Wilted Flowers

  1. deltamarketingaustria says:

    There is literally nothing that I don’t love about this post. I had to take a few minutes of just staring at the wall after reading this, just to digest it. So damn good.
    I came across this post by coincidence, but I can guarantee you I’ll be reading everything you post from now on.

      • ItMatterstoGrey says:

        I stumble as a writer. I am merely trying to find my voice. Your style is farther along. Just spread out or break out your writing into more paragraphs to make it visually easier to read. I am hooked.

      • farrahdomid says:

        Oh, believe when I say that I stumble. We all do. Writing can be difficult, you know? Thank you, though 🙂 &Yes, I’m now learning that it is best to do that. I have to go back and edit my older posts so they’re not so scary looking lol. Thanks for the feedback 🙂

      • ItMatterstoGrey says:

        My older posts are older post and a snapshot of a feeling, emotion, or experience. I leave it alone as it is me as I was and I don’t want to change that.

      • farrahdomid says:

        And I don’t think you should. That gives your writing personality, it speaks of who you once were and it shows your growth. Writing with your own voice is always important. I used to try to write like my favorite authors, but it never worked out. We just have to be ourselves and be accepting of who that person is. &You seem great, by the way, so don’t change a thing.

  2. Kate Spyder says:

    My first thought “OMG is this your life?”, my next thought “You’re beautiful”, whether it is a story or real life, it shattered me and left me whole. How did you do that? I love this because it took me somewhere I never expected to go.

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