Just Write (you nerds)

Pretty Flowers and Lies (rose)

one

Mother was never fond of his little . . . "quirks"

His breath smelled, he talked too loud, talked too quiet, he tapped too persistently on the edge of the table, ate too much food, ate too little food, however the one she hated the most was his collections.

He was always fond of collecting, especially in his younger years when he'd walk alongside mother in the park picking up whatever doodad would catch his fancy, but these little trinkets always lost their charm soon after he placed them on the shelf.

After-all at the end of the day, they weren't really alive.

At least not in the same way mother was.

So on one day, when he opened the plain brown box under the equally as plain tree, to see a small, carefully painted doll with the same curious expression his mother always had, he knew he had found a new collection that would fulfill his desire.

Everything about the doll had been lifelike from the eyes that paled and darkened like the changing sky to the little dimples and freckles scattered around all crevices of the doll's bare form, only hidden by its rich ink, but delicate hair.

A perfect little flower, just like Mother.

_

Scrawled in between the margins, messy in comparison to the neatly paired words was a simple question, "perhaps even better?"

--

He shut the diary, glancing back at the equally closed door in a weird attempt at justifying that mother was in fact not currently at home and wouldn't be barging into his room to snoop.

With a sigh, he slumped back into the seat letting his exhaustion, no, bliss finally wash over him instead of the prickling guilt he'd always expected to follow with such unbecoming thoughts.

To confess such a thing even within the confines of the book to his surprise felt thrilling as if a weight had been lifted from some unknown part of him.

"Something beyond mother? " He dryly mused

The thought was ungodly, but alluring none-the-less.

His fingers rhythmically tapped alongside the desk edge, as he giddily smiled, already pulling open his desk drawer to reveal a plain brown box.

His eyes almost rolled back from merely touching the box, and he persisted opening it to reveal the ever curious doll, without label or name, as mother would've preferred he'd kept it, just like his other collections.

But she wasn't like other collections.

He wasn't sure he needed any others to add to it.

Finally, he mustered the courage to pull the doll out of her confines, his fingers clammy against her smooth, soft, dimpled skin as he fumbled to find a gentlemanly way to hold her.

Every time he'd accidentally touched a delicate area she would emit squeaks, and as lovely as any sound from her was, any signs of distress from such a blessed creation was disturbing to witness.

After a while he'd settled for holding her by her hips between two fingers, causing her to emit a particularly startled squeak, but he quickly hushed her, "Flower please don't worry, I merely wished to see you again."

He couldn't help but smile.

That is until she looked away, eyes baring the most dreadful of expressions, as her little hands tickled the arm that was holding her, frantic.