One thought

It was quite late when I arrived back home. Well, if you could call a shabby shared apartment "home". Clicking the door open, I sighed with relief - none of my flatmates were awake, which meant I didn't have to deal with any human social games. I hung my coat on the hanger, took my shoes of and then I saw it.

Standing in a glass on a table of our common room, a bouquet of red flowers. A note read:

"We're very sorry for your loss. Our thoughts and prayers are with you."

And a second note nearby, in a different handwriting:

"Someone left those by our door. I put them in here so they don't die. - Viv."

I just stood there for a bit, eyes closed, concentrating on my breathing. Then, I took the flowers from a glass and threw them in the trash. Maybe it was somewhat harsh of me, but I couldn't care less at the moment.

I'm sick of flowers, I'm sick of all those "thoughts" and all those so-called "prayers" and I especially don't need them from two people who would've been still torturing me had I not escaped from their grasp.

I poured myself a glass of fresh water, drank it, gathered myself and headed for my room with one thought.

When I die and join her, I am begging you:

Please don't send us flowers.