Stupid Plants | A flash fiction story
37 of 💯
And now, he'd lost his name. “Perky.” It tasted bitter — the sound of his own voice, foreign. How could he be Perky?
On the horizon, the ruthless beam of light that had once burnt the delicate leaves of their plants was now a dim lamp, hidden behind layers of voile. Every day, a new layer was added over his eyes, and the sun got dimmer, slowly giving up.
His name, his eyesight — everything, it seemed, was being taken from him. Why? He had always been a perky, bright-eyed fellow. Not anymore.
The thing that hurt the most, though, was losing her. Her smile, her hope. How would he go on without her hope? He was Perky, but she was the hopeful one.
He would be better off blind, anyway. He had no interest in seeing anything else. If he couldn't see her hopeful smile, why see at all?
So. Now what? He had to take care of the stupid plants, that was what. He’d promised he would — she’d made him promise. She’d said maybe one day they could make him perky again.
She was wrong. But he would take care of the stupid plants anyway because, when he did, even with his foggy vision, he could see her smile — a beam of light piercing through the fog — and he had hope again.
He stared at the dim sun, smiling like an idiot.
“Stupid fucking plants.”
