Laila walks from her bedroom down the hall. The kitchen is lively, in one way or another.
Her parents, who are chatting as if they have yet to see her, become silent when they do. She had been expecting this, but it still hurts. Her mother's eyes that latch on to her as if she were a hawk, her father has not looked at her once.
The mark on her face still burns, yet not as much as her tears do.
On the table, are wilting flowers. A bouquet of Carnations, Lilies, Roses, and Hyacinths. An odd combination to her, but her father still buys her mother flowers, and she cannot question what her mother likes.
She can only stare at those flowers, as if they were watching back. Like they are mourning. What are they mourning? Their quickly passing life? The fact they had been plucked from their roots, leaving them to die?
She supposes that she could mourn them too. At the very least, those flowers will have someone to mourn them for what they are. A pitiful existence that people only love while they are youthful. Laila likes wilted flowers too, though.
It is proof they can be pretty in death. That someone adored them long enough to see them die. They were a symbol of a shared love. Even with their ghostly appearance, they are still mostly put together: a sign of their strength. Even after being taken from their roots, they lived strong.
It is almost sad to her. How could people be so cruel to flowers? Given as a sign of love and left to die. As if their lives were nothing more than a gift. Nothing more than their youthful beauty.
To Laila, that must be a curse. Flowers did nothing to deserve it. All they did was live; how much of a crime is that?
There is a knock on the door. Behind it, dressed nicely, is Violet.
Laila rushes to the door, excited to see her best friend. Violet, the prettiest girl in the world. Maybe even prettier than her mother. No, not quite. Not yet.
Her father's eyes pinpoint the guitar case on Violet's back. She plays the acoustic guitar; she has encouraged Laila's dreams. Dreams Laila is not allowed to have. She could not amount to that much.
No words are exchanged as Violet goes back to Laila's bedroom with her. It is common for Violet to come visit, although her parents have stated against it many times. She is Laila's best friend, since childhood. They just do not speak to Violet, and she cannot stay long.
It is a privilege to have people in her home, in her crushing walls. It feels like the enclosed space gets larger when Violet is with her, as if it was not squeezing her tightly anymore. She wishes Violet could stay longer. It is the only time the cold is not as bad anymore. The only time her bed does not feel so small.
Violet is a bouquet of Sunflowers, Peonies, and Lotus flowers. She cannot explain why, but that girl has always felt that way. As if she were life, giving Laila roots. Laila appreciates Violet much more than she could say.
It hurts her as she watches Violet leave a few hours later. The walls begin to whisper and mock her. They begin to squeeze her tighter.
She looks back at the guitar under her bedframe. Did her parents watch Violet leave without it? She hopes not. Violet left the instrument for Laila. A gift. One better than any flower ever could be.
Laila is a rockstar, not a florist. She does not want something that will only die and abandon her. It is wrong. Flowers are as alive as she is. They deserve their roots. They deserve to be in an open field, unbothered by human life, not enclosed in walls that steal their freedom.
Every day, she understands Roses more and more. The reason they have thorns. They fight off the touch of those who want them for their beauty, but they still lose the battle. They still end up in that vase. Owned by someone who only liked it while it was living, forgetting that plucking the flower had cheated it of its life.