Chapter 1: Flowers For a Funeral

(Solaris)

Sunshine is very unusual in a place like Port Matilde, and call me superstitious if you will, but a clear sky is something I’ve never been able to trust. So when the subtle rays creeped between the cracks of my curtains early in the morning, I had a feeling today would be exceptional, and it was, considering I was cleaning up blood off my floor by the end of it.

I finally managed to bring myself out of bed, and that already felt like enough work for the day.

Upon opening my window, I take a moment to breathe it all in, the wind’s humming alongside the whistle of early birds was cut short by Mrs. Kingsly’s shrill voice yelling at her thirty-something-year-old son to finally do something worthwhile with his life, a tune the whole neighbourhood has known by heart now.

Water boils in the kettle right as the delivery boy arrives with a basket of freshly baked goods.

“Your father knows he doesn’t have to send me these every week, right?” I say knowing fully well I will gladly devour every single piece.

“He’s just trying to look out for you, plus it’s a way for someone to try his new recipes, we’re all too scared…he gets real crazy in that bakery sometimes”

“Better be prepared for an honest critique next time then”

“You bet I will”

Before he leaves, I slip him some money. He gives me a knowing look and grins, sliding it into his pocket before cycling off.

The rest of my morning went by smoothly. I had one whole banana which could be considered breakfast, actually did my bed, tidied the apartment a bit even though no one comes over, decided to wear a cute outfit for a change, a little white dress (with pockets), and maybe for the first time ever, managed to exit the house and not be extremely late.

As I walk down the street, I see nothing but familiar faces. Each person heading towards their job to make their own living in this godforsaken city, but this neighbourhood has always been different from the rest. Yes, it's poor and overcrowded, but it's not dirty…only figuratively speaking (we have a huge rat problem).

People here are kind, a trait that’s been hard to find around in times like these. They love their families and love each other. Even though we live in a garbage dump, but this is our garbage dump.

Not to mention, it's safe, the only place that is considered a peace zone, no mafia wars, gang violence, drug dealers, conmen, or other barbarity that infest this city like disease. It's just honest people trying to live an honest life. A perfect place to open shop without any disturbances.

.

I wouldn’t say I’ve ever killed anyone, well, not directly at least, but my hands are still stained, perhaps by apathy. Indifference carries its own evil, a type that seeps like sand between your fingers, you can never fully catch it, call it for what it truly is, but when you look closer, the grains will be clinging there as a constant reminder of the vileness you attempt to ignore.

This is a rotten part of me I’ve learned to accept, hell it kept me company longer than anything, or anyone else in my life, and that’s okay, is what I keep telling myself, it echoes through the constant emptiness of my house, it’s the price you pay to get what you want.

.

On my way a light breeze passes by, my curly hair flutters with it, as the sun shining upon my dark brown skin makes it glow golden. I wave and nod at the locals. Its easy to say I would rather be subjected to military prison camp level torture, than having to maintain small talk and exchange formalities. (Okay that might be a bit of an extreme example, but you get the point)

Don't get me wrong I love this neighbourhood and the people in it, but probably for the wrong reason: They mind their own business.

Here I can preserve my identity by being known and liked, but not too much as to have people snoop around about me, and they don't, they're too busy trying to, you know, survive. I can be the friendly neighbourhood florist. Nothing less. Nothing more.

I finally reach my flower shop (Solar Sy'stem'). While unlocking the door I hear "No way. You're on schedule for once? I thought opening times were just for decoration, what next is hell freezing over? " the part timer from the coffee store next door exclaims.

"Why don't I send you there to check?"

He lets out a laugh thinking I was joking.

I was not.

Roman has always been a strange fellow. He started working at the café shortly after my business started blooming (no pun intended) and word got out, which always had me a tad bit suspicious, then again it could be a coincidence.

He works several jobs around the city, never stays still for a minute, so I only see him till noon before he runs off somewhere. He's tall, has bronze skin as if kissed by the sun itself, freckles scattered around every inch, with brown curls that reach his shoulders.

He considers himself an artist, someone that can't be bound to one place or one person. His eyes light up whenever he talks about his dreams, which we've spent countless nights on the shop's rooftop discussing. He faces the unknown future without fear, something I've always envied. I look at him and see a mad man, a foolishly free mad man.

I had hopes that maybe one day, I'll finally have the guts to step outside this corner I’ve backed myself into, then, and only then will I be able to truly consider him a friend.

I open shop and move on with my day. Customer in and customer out, but to be honest if I only used the shop as a source of income, I would not be able to afford living to see the next day.

Believe it or not, people in crime infested cities do not care much for flowers, which is a shame to say the least.

I'm not a romantic, but I do like romanticizing things, it becomes part of the job. I find it fascinating how the very few people that walk in here do it for a purpose of love. Be it familial, romantic, platonic, or any other type. How is it that flowers, a weapon deadlier than guns become such a symbol of such passion and devotion? Lovers, partners, friends and families, I've seen them all, and they all left a sour taste in my mouth.

Yet today, just half an hour before 'closing time'. Night had already veiled the city and rain had started to pour as to cleanse it from its sins.

The bell above the door chimes as someone walks in. The man, all drenched drags himself inside like a stray animal. Each footstep heavier than the other. I could only describe it as if there were some sort of shadow looming over him.

He reaches the counter and plops his arm on the desk "flowers" he says "I need flowers"

"You don't say?" I remark, lifting an eyebrow to gesture that he is in fact in a flower shop.

He gives me a blank stare "for a funeral" he replies, finally.

Oh. I haven't had those in a while.

"There are a couple of options you can choose from. You have carnations, tulips, lilies, although most people tend to go for roses-"

"Anything. It doesn't matter, just give me anything." A tone so void of emotion you'd think he was made of tin and metal. Droplets fell from his dishevelled black hair over his eyes, a darkness in them that can engulf a person whole. The droplets kept running, across the shades of gloom circling below, then over the paleness of his skin, tickling the faint scars scattered across his defined jaw.

He was tired.

"Understood" I head towards the flowers and reach out to grab some plain red roses, but as soon as I hold them in my hands, it feels so...wrong, somewhat disrespectful of me, to rid these flowers of their meaning this way, their true meaning, and so I hesitate.

"You know...flowers aren't only ceremonial decorations."

He begrudgingly turns around to look at me, with an expression saying 'what?'

I carry on "in times when you want to express how you feel but can’t find the words to use, to hide your emotions in plain sight, flowers are a way to do so... they're not only an offer to the person you lost, but your final message to them as well, a message that will only be known by the two of you, so no, it does matter, tell me how you feel and I'll give you what you need."

He continues staring at me in silence, then draws a deep breath,

"My father" he chokes out "it's my father's funeral" something in his expression cracks, the emptiness behind cold unwavering eyes shifts, as if while saying that, he'd just realized it's true.

"Oh God. Is he really... gone?" his voice shakes.

He slowly slid to the ground, clutching his chest, as if he wanted to rip out his beating heart with his bare hands.

"He was my- my everything" his breath out of control like a scratched record, "I-I don't know what I'm supposed to do now" the tears falling generously down his face.

It took me a few seconds to realize, he was having a panic attack.

Suddenly, I was also down there, kneeling by his side, trying to calm him down, to find any way to help.

I grabbed some lavender in hand "smell this” "w- wha-t?" he was gasping for air.

Without thinking I held his chin and gently raised it upwards as I put the flower under his nose and whispered, as softly as I could "It's okay, I got you, now slowly breathe in, breathe out"

He closed his eyes and did exactly that. “That’s it, focus on the smell, focus on my voice, just try your best to come back, remember, you’re okay, you’re with me”

It took him a while to calm down, I could see his muscles gradually relaxing, his body becoming less tense. I just awkwardly sat their patting his shoulder because I didn’t know what else to do after that point, don’t ask me why I was even there in the first place, looking after a complete stranger, who in that moment, for no particular reason, I cared so much for.

He then looked down to see his hand had been clasped in mine the whole time, the funny thing is, I didn't even notice. He immediately let go, I don’t know if I imagined it, but I might’ve caught a flush rising in his cheeks as he aggressively wiped his face, before dashing out the door, without saying a single word.

"Good job Solaris, that's definitely how you gain customers, have them hyperventilate on your floor, I should've just given him the roses and called it a day" I burry my face in my palms, as I hear my heartbeat grow louder and louder.

No.

I need to get it together.

It was time to get to work.