Dead Flowers | H.S.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

It was easy to leave Harry. Once I was down the stairs and out the door and the frigid air was enveloping me, it felt like I had snipped a part of my life away, the saddest part of myself. I left it there in the apartment above the bookstore where Harry worked, docile and ludicrous.

My feet stopped just outside the window and I watched Harry work for a moment, a smile lingering on his pretty, pink lips. He was so happy to have me back. So pleased that he had cured me.

When I began walking again, I wasn't sure where I was going. But I was not surprised when I ended up in front of Howard's house. The door was still painted and a little bit ugly, but I knocked nonetheless.

"I'm coming, I'm coming!"

-

Howard stared at me for a long time as I sat on his old couch, holding a cup of tea he handed me though I had no intent to drink it.

"Why didn't you go to his parents'? Even though I love having you here..."

"That's the first place he'll look."

"You don't think he ain't gonna come marching to my house, too?"

My lip quivered.

"I don't know. I just came here."

Howard put his hand on top of his head and sighed a long, exhausted sigh.

"You know you're more than welcome to stay here," Howard slowly sat on the chair across from me, eyes tired, "but I need you to answer a couple questions before I can let you on here."

"Okay."

"Why'd you leave him?"

My heart ached. I took another sip of tea and rested my tired neck on the couch.

"I couldn't be there anymore," I whispered, "I've lost too much."

"What have you lost?" Howard's voice was soft, inquisitive.

We listened to the ticking of his grand clock, the swishing of the fan, the humming of the fridge.

"My fucking mind."

-

Howard said I slept for days the next time I saw him. He told me that I'd been in and out of consciousness for days, thrashing in my bed, calling out unfamiliar names, calling out for Harry and his arms. I hadn't remembered a lick of it—I simply recalled falling asleep on Monday and awakening on Thursday evening.

"You just rest up. Don't you worry none about boys and the like," Howard whispered, carefully dabbing my forehead with an icy rag.

I hadn't realized how achy I was until I shifted to look at Howard in the dim light. My muscles were cramped under the skin that was riddled with fatigue and fever.

In the room he had set me up in, the one at the end of the hall, I had only light by candle. He had never gotten around to installing electricity in the room because his wife had used it as her own little green room. There were still plants everywhere—hanging from the ceiling, lining the ample windows, set on the ground and stretching upwards—but there was a circle in the middle of the room with a tiny twin bed made of goose down, a dusty little side table that hardly fit more than a glass of water and late-night read, and a dresser that touched the ceiling.