His Little Flower (Felix and Flora)

Why would he say that? The feelings I had for Felix were real. The feelings Felix had for me real. He couldn’t erase that with this statement about teenage immaturity.

“It was real, Tommy.” I didn’t realize how harsh my tone was till his eyes widened a little, and he took a step back.

“Geez,” He raised his hands in defense, “Sorry, Flora. I didn’t mean to attack your relationship.”

“I’m sorry.” I muttered.

“What happened with him then?”

I licked my lips before answering. “We, um…” I sighed. “Life happened, I guess.” This text is property of Nô/velD/rama.Org.

He frowned, but he did not push it further. What had happened, anyway? How could I condense it into one sentence, a small explanation? How would I explain it to Felix without upturning my whole life?

Tommy and I shared a cigarette before driving home. I had picked up smoking a few months ago. I hadn’t wanted to, but it had gone from smoking with him sometimes, to having bought a pack for myself. I knew I shouldn’t do it, but it was alright, I didn’t want to live that long anyway.

I struggled to take the bags of groceries to my flat alone, and Tommy offered to help, but I had to decline. Dad would ask too many questions, and he would cook up some story about how I was having sex with Tommy for money, or something insane like that.

After I finally made it upstairs, I began to unbag the groceries and place them in our small fridge and the rest in the small cupboard we called our pantry. I could hear the TV blasting in the background as Dad watched a basketball game.

“You making dinner?” He yelled from the living room.

“Yes.” I yelled back. “Just a while, Dad.”

He didn’t respond, but in a few seconds, I saw him walk into the kitchen. He grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and downed almost half of it. He turned to me and began to look through the brown packets of groceries on the counter. I didn’t pay him much attention, thinking he was looking for something.

“Where’s my cigarettes?”

Oh no.

My head jerked up to meet his gaze. “I’m so sorry, Dad, I forgot. I’ll go get them now.”

I wished and wished and wished that this small mistake I had made wouldn’t escalate. I hoped and prayed that he’d let this go and not descend into a moment where he got super mad for something very small, sometimes for no apparent reason.

“You’re so fucking stupid, Flora.” He reached out and grabbed my hair, his fingers twisting in it. I whimpered. “Dad.” I whispered. “I’m sorry. I forgot. I didn’t mean to, I swear.”

His grip tightened and I let out a pained squeal. “I know why you forgot.” He seethed. His breath smelled of alcohol. Cheap whiskey, that he was always drinking. “Cause you were whoring out with the fucking neighbor boy. Spreading your legs for him, huh?” His tone was harsh, his words harsher. “You love being a slut, don’t you? You’re just like your mom. Gonna give it up to any fucker who gives you a dime for it.”

“Don’t talk about Mom like that,” I told him. I could take all the insults he threw at me. I didn’t care if he called me a whore, a slut, whatever. But he couldn’t say that about Mom. Not when she had

given her everything to him. And especially not now. He couldn’t desecrate and disrespect her memory like that. She didn’t deserve it.

I didn’t see the punch coming, but I felt it. Oh, did I feel it. I doubled over in pain, clutching my eye, still feeling his fist on there. I could feel my eye throbbing. It hurt so much, it hurt so bad. I barely had time for the pain to subside, before Dad grabbed my arm, tearing it away from my face, taking away the small amount of relief it was giving me. He twisted it behind my back, pulling me close to him, till he was seething in my face, “Don’t you fucking talk back to me.”

My right eye was throbbing. I could barely see anything – just small light particles, quite literally like seeing stars, and a black haze. I knew it would form a bruise. I’d have to come up with another excuse about it. How much makeup could I put on? How many bruises could I hide?

Dad left my arm and pushed me away suddenly, and my hip hit the counter with a thud. Great, another injury. I clutched my hip with my right hand, and my eye with the other.

Dad grabbed the nearest thing he could find – it was a glass of water, and threw it on the floor. “Fuck!” He yelled, before he stalked out. I heard the front door slam shut behind him as he left the house.

I had to take a minute to breathe. I took several deep breaths.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

I got some ice from the freezer and rubbed it on my eye. It hurt, but this wasn’t the first time I was

doing it. The first time I had cried, screamed and yelled, cursing my fate and all of life’s cruel plans. But it had been so long now, I knew there was no point to it.

I need to get out of here, soon. Out of here, soon. As soon as can be. Please.