CLEMENTINE awakes to a room stuffed with vases of dead flowers.

And if not vases, shriveled petals and limp stems make homes in dirty coffee mugs and abandoned water pitches cast to the side of the windowsill.

Although most of the blackened dahlias had lived in her room for weeks, maybe months, a new batch of browning roses are bundled right beside her door. Shadows slip into Clementine's room from the sliver of light underneath her bedroom door.

As she pushes off the comforters and tiptoes lightly on the frigid hardwood floor, her mother throws open the door with a bright smile, a fresh bouquet of dead daisies tucked under her arm.

"Morning," her mother greets her cheerily, avidly plucking petals of a nearby flower and disposing them carelessly on the floor. She continues to move down the hall, and Clementine follows her, picking up after the disposed flower petals.

Clementine knows better than to try and understand her mother. She barely glances at the sloshy liquid container sitting on the kitchen counter—her mother's new concoction to kill her beloved flowers. Instead, she pounds on her brother's door to wake him up, pours herself a cup of coffee, and spits out the flower petal that had been lying undetected on her toothbrush.

There is something wrong with Clementine's mother.

Robbie, Clementine's older brother, is almost as quiet as she leaves the house that morning. It's an unspoken agreement to leave their mother be and unbothered while Robbie prepares for work and Clementine prepares for school.

On their mother's bad days, the slight creak of a door can send her into a spiral of panic, resulting in dozens more flowers lines up at their doorstep—flowers that her mother would ruin within the hour. But if she and Robbie are careful, they can return home to only a few more damaged greenery.

Clementine reeks of flowers. There is no indication that the vibrant, cloying scent belongs to dead and dying roses, but everyone knows. The usual silence accompanies her as she navigates her way to school.

The quiet is her friend.

"Hey, flower girl. Any more dead blossoms for us today?" a boy calls out, right on time. Eight o'clock sharp every morning. The same whispers and the same snigger from the same boy. She wishes she cares enough to bother responding.

Clementine walks on.