Whispers of the Flowers

My family never saw tragedy. We were, in the eyes of many, the luckiest people alive; and even to this day, I still have no idea how we have been so lucky. You may wonder what I mean by how lucky we are and let me tell you that our luck stretches to the point that none of my family has ever died or aged. Once we hit the age of twenty-one, our body just stops aging, and we get to live forever and ever. Many people see living for eternity as a curse, and I could see why someone would think that way. After all, when you live forever you watch the ones you loved the most die; however, I never have to say goodbye to my family, and so I see immortality as a blessing.

My family, the Hearts, lived in a small town in Wyoming, away from the rest of the world. Our house, which was a mansion, sat atop a small hill that oversaw the rest of the quiet, little city of Irving. We were the established royal family, you could say. The mayor himself always listened to whatever my grandfather, who was currently the longest living relative of ours, said. We had power and life; what else did we need? Another important thing to note is that our immortal blessing started with my grandfather, and I was currently the youngest of the family. I, Cynthia Rose Heart, was sixteen years old, and I was my grandfather’s favorite. However, in all this amazement of eternity with my family, I only ever knew my father, mother, and grandfather. I never knew of my grandmother or any of the other relatives that my parents talked about. My mom had two sisters, and my father had a younger brother; but I never saw either of my aunts or my uncle. My grandfather always said that whoever left this house would be cursed with mortality. I guess the blessing was only to those who remained in the house.

Our house was one of the most beautiful buildings that I had ever seen in my life. It had countless rooms and bathrooms, and I easily found myself getting lost in the hallways every single day. If you did not have an idea of where you were, then you would forever be lost and trapped inside the home because of how much of a maze it was. The house, I mean mansion, was built over a century ago, and although it had been remodeled with some modern technology like indoor plumbing and electricity, it still had that old house vibe. I would be lying if I said that there were not times that I was scared to walk to the bathroom at night. The floorboards always creaked, there was always some mysterious breeze, and I am pretty sure that there was a ghost in our attic. Nonetheless, I loved this place that I called home.

My favorite part of this home was the garden outside. Oh, how it rivaled all the gardens of the world! Nothing could compare to the luscious and beautiful flower beds that lined the old cobblestone pathways that wound around the area. I spent hours in these gardens, alone and by myself (which I realized was almost all the time). There were all different types of flowers that called my garden their home. We had rose bushes that had pink, red, and even yellow roses. We had tulips, daisies, lantana, and just about every flower you could think of. My favorite of these flowers were the golden yellow marigold flowers that were in the back of the garden, almost set aside from the rest of the place. Why were they my favorite? That was because these marigolds were the only flowers in the entire garden that actually spoke to me. You are probably laughing right now, thinking I am insane to believe that flowers could speak. However, every time I would walk near them, I could hear them call out my name in a whisper. This whisper was rather harsh at times though, as if the flowers were calling out for help, as if they were trying to get my attention. Every time they called my name, I always responded. Yet, no matter how many times I responded, it never seemed that the marigolds could hear me talk back. They just kept yelling at me. Whatever it was, I kept it as my own secret and would never tell my parents. Just like I would never tell them about how every time I got closer to these flowers, I felt a heat upon my whole body.

I had never really been concerned about that heat before, but as I walked towards those flowers today, I really could feel that heat crawling upon my skin more than I had before. It was as if every step I took towards those flowers the sun grew more and more intense. I stopped in my tracks, only about five more steps away from the marigold flowers and wondered if I would finally figure out why I felt how I did as I got closer to them.

So, I took another step forward.

“Cynthia…Cynthia…Miss Heart…CYNTHIA!”

I could hear them calling out to me, their voices inside my head echoing around and bouncing off the inside walls of my mind.

Again, I took another step forward.

The burning feeling grew more, as if my blood itself was slowly starting to boil. Was there no shade around here or something? Maybe the sun was just worse right here.

I took another step forward.

“Cynthia, can you hear us?!”

The voices kept growing louder and louder; louder than they had before.

I took another step forward.

My arms were burning and growing redder by the minute, and my face felt like I needed to reach-up and peel it off. I could feel the blood inside my body boiling more and more.

I took the final step forward.

I was now standing right above the flower beds, looking down at the marigold flowers that were screaming inside my head and slowly burning me alive. Something inside told me to reach down and pick one, just to see what would happen if I did. I hesitated for a moment as I remembered the cold and empty feeling of the house on the hill and how this feeling now was life and pain. I reached down, my fingers gracing the thin stem of one of those golden yellow flowers. I was just seconds away from plucking it when I heard my mother’s voice behind me.

“Come with us, my darling. Don’t go back. We can be happy here together…forever.”

My mother’s voice sounded so enticing, and I really wanted to go towards her. She outstretched one of her hands towards me. She was only a few feet away from me, and if I wanted to, I could be in her arms right now, but those flowers kept calling to me. A breeze blew through the garden, and I could hear the wind-chimes, but they sounded off for the first time in forever. It was like they were matching the rhythm of my heart. Every time I felt my heart pulse in my chest, I could hear it with the wind-chimes. The burning inside, the sound of the chimes, and the voices in my head all led me to pluck that flower from the soil.

As soon as I felt the snap of the stem leaving the ground, my whole vision went blurry, and then I blacked out. I tried to scream for help; I tried to reach for my mother. It was all to no avail. The next thing I knew was that that burning pain from before came back tenfold, and now I was screaming. Oh, yes, I was screaming now. The voices of the flowers I could hear once again, and this time, they were much clearer. The sound the wind chimes had made turned into an electronic beeping that was matching the rhythm of my heart. Then my vision returned, and I could see clearly once again, and my memory returned with it.

Today was my birthday. My parents and grandfather had surprised me with a cake for my sixteenth birthday even though we could barely afford it. It was just as I had blown out the candles on the cake that I remember the smell of smoke in the apartment, and that I could feel heat baking around us from the fire that had spread across the apartment complex. The neighbor had accidentally left their candles lit, and the fire from their apartment had spread to ours. I can remember trying to find a way out of the kitchen, but there was just fire everywhere. Then, I remember my dad picking me up into his arms and running me outside (our apartment had been on the first floor), leaving me on the grass as he ran back in for the rest of my family; but as soon as he stepped foot inside the complex, it collapsed in on him and the rest of my family. It was at that moment that I passed out from the pain.

But it was one of those freak moments when death turned into life and a second chance. I was lying in a hospital bed with burns all along my arms, legs, and face. At first, I was screaming, but the doctors had given me a sedative so now I was slowly drifting back off to sleep, except this time I knew I would not be returning to that quiet mansion on the hill that overlooked the small town. I knew that I would just sleep, and that when I woke-up, I would once again realize that this was not a dream but that this was my new reality. This new reality where my parents and grandfather had both died on my birthday because of a fire. It now hit me, as my eyes were closing quickly from drowsiness, that I had not been dreaming. I had nearly died, but the doctors had saved me.

The dark, spooky, and empty house on the hill was death; and the golden, bright, and vibrant marigolds were life. For better or worse, I chose life. I chose to listen to the whispers of the flowers.