four
ALTHOUGH it's easiest to refer it that way, murder isn't quite what Clementine's mother does to those poor flowers.
No, because she handles them with such love, such delicate care.
A sort of tenderness with which she strips away life from delicate petals.
When Clementine returns home that afternoon, her mother is performing an impromptu surgery on a flower with a sewing needle, stroking the petal's veins repeatedly with the needle to slice it open.
Clementine watched as her mother accidentally cuts herself, red blooming on her thumb.
Her mother smears the blood onto the petal, coating over the flower with crimson red. She smiles lovingly.
Clementine turns away with disgust.
"Good day at school?" her mother asks, gazing at the flower fondly. She glances up at Clementine expectantly.
"Yeah."
Her mother nods. The silence resumes.
Clementine leaves the room.
Junior year is hard enough, but second semester is rough. Too much homework, not enough time.
Clementine feels as though she's drowning.
The midday sun melts into the horizon and the sky darkens into a mellow purple.
The day is coming to an end.
Clementine's up in her room, tapping the wood of her desk with her pencil. Head propped on her elbow, ignoring her calculus assignment.
Instead, she's daydreaming.
She's daydreaming of a strong, swimmer's body, and a mischievous quirk of a brow. Golden coffee eyes.
She misses him.
Clementine ends up skipping dinner. Too much homework, not enough time.
Not enough time.
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