Botany

         It plays in my mind like a movie I walked into late.  What happened before this?    I don’t remember being woken up or waking up or what I was dreaming about; I just remember the struggle.  He was against me and I was straining to find an escape, then in what felt like a split second and a million years at the same time, that struggle turned into a struggle against the weight of death.  And when I managed to get him off me, the blood confirmed what I had done and I felt even heavier. 

         As his blood seeped into my sheets, I stood there, paralyzed with fear and shame and confusion.  I was pulled from my thoughts by a sharp knock on my door and a voice telling me the police wanted in.  My first instinct was to hide and pretend I wasn’t there; to pretend away the blood and the body and then to pack up and run away forever, but a second knock accompanied this time by a frustrated voice forced me to realize there was no way to get away from what I had done.  So I went to the door, shocking the policeman with the figure of a bloodstained, terrified girl.  His pulled gun startled me into tears.           The cuffs were cold.  The next thing I knew there were swarms of official people in uniform filling my small apartment.  I rehashed my story a few times but there were no witnesses.  Just sounds people heard that could mean anything.  The rustle of a struggle, the loud bang of a gun.

         The cell was cold.  Everything was cold and hazy.  No, it was just dark and my memory is hazy.  I was somewhere else, somewhere safe with my hands in the cool, damp, soil, the only escape from the heavy summer days of my childhood.  I was with my mom because we were both feeling sort of lonely and left out and she was teaching me about when to plant and what to plant. 

         My mom showed up, but my father didn’t.  He sent a lawyer to be there while I was questioned. I knew I needed him, but I still couldn’t help resenting where the money came from to pay for him, my father’s job as a surgeon.  It kept him away from me as a kid and keeps him away from me now.  My mom’s presence helped and hurt.  She made me feel safe, like when I was a kid and thought there were monsters under my bed, but she was never very good with emotions and neither was I.  She would give me a reassuring hug and ask me how I was doing, but I always lied.  “Fine.  I’m fine.”  Maybe the conversation following “not so good” or “horrible” would’ve been too awkward to face.  Maybe I just really couldn’t think about it more than I already was, couldn’t let myself get past emotions and into words.  Putting words to what I felt made them seem too permanent, made me know them too well.  So to my mom, I was “fine” or at least just not ready to talk.  Instead we went apartment hunting and spent a lot of time in the botanical gardens because we both felt safe there.  It was an easy distraction.  I could work and she could wander and we could avoid talking.  I loved being there.  It was the only place where I felt I knew who I was and what I was doing and what I wanted and it had been my sanctuary before my life fell into a mess of wordless emotions and sleepless nights.  My head swam with a cluttered combination of flowers, soil, and blood.  All I wanted to do was escape into the simple life of the plants I cared for, but the mess of human life followed me everywhere. 

         Eventually, I had a new apartment, had told the story as extensively as I could to the police, and had convinced my mother that I really was getting to be fine and not just avoiding words.  So once again, I was alone.  The first night was hard.  I went between regretting my choice not to get another gun and being relieved that there wasn’t one around to haunt me.  I was torn between wanting its protective presence and being disgusted by the ease with which it takes life.  But then I would remember that it wasn’t alone, that it really wasn’t to blame.

         I started spending more and more time at the gardens.  They were safe and dirty in the cleanest way possible.  The soil felt like the least messy part of my life, even when my fingernails were caked with it.  I stopped spending time with my friends because I couldn’t stand the way the treated me like a delicate glass bowl.  The looks of reassurance they gave me did nothing but remind me of my pain.  Every “Are you ok?” reminded me that I wasn’t.  I knew I needed to talk to someone, to “get help.”  Everyone suggested it and I could feel my old life slipping away from me.  I looked up a few doctors, but I couldn’t face the words they would make me put to how I felt.  Fear, shame, disgust, relief.  I knew those ones and they were as far as I wanted to get.  I just needed time, was what I told myself.  I could take care of myself.  The time not spent with friends was spent with green life.  Cultivating, growing, sustaining.

         One night, when I found there were particularly more words swimming in my head than I wanted, I decided that I just had to get them out.  First, I tested the waters, “Hello?”  My voice seemed so loud in the empty greenhouse.  I half expected the security guard to answer, but he had gotten used to my long stays and would only check up on me every once in a while.  There was only silence.

         “I…” my voice shook.  Maybe I really didn’t have anything to say; maybe it was just a passing feeling.

         “I can’t do this.”  It came out as a whisper.  I sighed and went back to tending to the roots of an orchid.  As I was checking the orchids I started to hear I quiet whispering.  At first I dismissed the noise as the wind, but it kept getting more and more distinct.  I couldn’t tell where it was coming from.  It sounded like it was everywhere. 

         “Hello... Hello?  Who’s there?  This isn’t funny!” I started panicking.  Just as I was about to run for the door, everything fell silent.  I froze in my spot and strained to hear who was making the noise, but the pounding of my heart was too loud.

         “Who did that?”

         “I’m sorry sweetheart; we didn’t mean to scare you so badly.”  I jumped at the sound of the woman’s voice and looked around franticly to put a face with it.  Her voice was so loud that it sounded like she was right next to me.

         “Come out!” I commanded.

         “I’m right here, you don’t have to shout.”  It was suddenly clear where the voice was coming from.  I looked down, confused. 

         “Listen sweetheart…” the orchid started, but I didn’t stay to hear what she had to say.  I ran from the greenhouse in tears.           

         The next morning, on my way to work I convinced myself that I had just had a long day and my mind was trying to get me to go home and sleep.  I was sure that everything would be back to normal once I got to the greenhouse.  I was wrong.

         It started right when I got there.  I tried to ignore it as best as I could, but often times they were talked to me or about me and I couldn’t help but listen in.  When my colleagues dropped in, I would ask them if they heard anything, but my question was always answered with the same skeptical look and a “no”.  There could be no other explanation other than it was all a figment of my imagination, so I figured if I could just pretend they weren’t there, my brain would stop making them speak.  I would concentrate really hard on thinking of the flowers as just things with no emotions or personalities.  I would squeeze my eyes shut and think about all the facts I had learned about plants, think about how none of it included a plant having a brain, but when I opened my eyes again, there a flower would be, staring at me with a wondering look.  Sometimes they would ask me what I was doing, but I would never respond.  That was my rule.  Don’t speak to the flowers.  If I couldn’t help listening, then I could help speaking. 

         There were many comments that made me want to spit out a snarky retort, or questions I desperately wanted to set straight, or just a thanks I wanted to give a few of them for caring about me, but I always restrained myself.  Don’t speak to the flowers.  But one day, I just couldn’t keep the words firmly tucked away in my mouth anymore.  It started with a mumbled response; something quiet, and under my breathe and a little snarky.  Something to the effect of, “What do you know? You’re just a flower.”  I didn’t think they could hear me and when everything fell silent, I thought they were gone.  But just as a sigh of relief was about to pass my lips, they all started in on me.  My sigh turned to one of defeat.  “How rude!” they were saying and “We’re only trying to help!”  They were all talking at once.  It was too much; too loud.  I just wanted them to stop.

         “I’m sorry!”  The clarity and force of my voice shocked even me.  It made my voice unrecognizable.  There was a spilt second where I thought someone else had spoken.  They all fell silent again, but the anticipation that hung in the air was enough to prevent me from thinking they were gone. 

         “It’s ok sweetheart, we know you’re going through a rough time.”  It was the orchid again.  She seemed to be the self-appointed leader or spokeswoman at the very least.

It didn’t really bother me that these flowers always knew how I was feeling or what was going on in my life because I had accepted that they were nothing but a figment of my imagination.  That I was imagining talking flowers had also ceased to bother me.  I decided that as long as the voices weren’t telling me to do anything bad, I was ok.  And though I never admitted it to myself, I was much too embarrassed to get help anyway.  I told myself that if I told anyone, they would turn me into some sort of psychology experiment.

         When I didn’t respond, she continued.  “How are you doin’?  I know we go on and on about what we think, but we really just want you to be ok.”

         “Well I’m not.  I’m talking to flowers!” 

         “Well there’s no reason to be ungrateful sweetheart.”  There was an edge of annoyance in her voice for a moment, but she regained composure and continued, “I think talking about it will help you.”  I stubbornly stared at the flower for a moment, trying to think of some sort of comeback.  But nothing witty or even in resemblance to a comeback came to me.  Instead, I thought of everything that has torn me apart or just scratched at my insides since that night.  I thought of the tears of fear and regret and self-hate.  I thought of the way I would clench and unclench my fists trying to get at least some sort of grip on my turbulent emotions.  Finally, I broke down and with a rainstorm of tears came a deluge of everything I had bottled up, pretending I was fine.  I talked about everything from my regrets to just being lonely.  Mostly I talked about the man I killed and how I couldn’t stop thinking about who he was, who his family was, and why he was in my apartment.  I knew he attacked me, but he was a person, and whatever life he had, I took away from him.  I couldn’t justify that to myself.  Maybe the police thought there was justification, but they never had to feel the weight of death crushing them in their own home.  They were never covered in the sticky mess of taking a life.

         The orchid was right, it did make me feel a little better.  It wasn’t exactly as if a great burden had been lifted, but it was a start.  So I continued to tell them how I felt, and what I was thinking.  I grew to know the flowers.  It wasn’t the end of my pain, but it helped.       

One day, after lunch, I saw a woman eyeing me.  I didn’t recognize her, but she seemed to recognize me.  My heart beat faster as she approached me nervously.  Her face was permanently creased with worry or anger.  I couldn’t tell which.  We made eye contact.  There was no way out. 

         “Excuse me are you Hana?”

         “Er… yes.”  I wasn’t sure I wanted to admit that I was who she was looking for, but I couldn’t think of an alternative.

         When her arms wrapped around me, my first instinct was to fight back.  Maybe this broken looking women was stronger than she seemed.  Then, I realized she didn’t want to hurt me or kidnap me.  She was hugging me.  My rigid body relaxed enough for my arm to gently wrap around her to pat her on the back.  When she pulled away from me, I gladly acquiesced.  She had a warm smile on her face that did not fit in with her damaged features.  She must have seen the confusion on my face, because she started explaining without my having to ask.

         “I was attacked a few years ago in my apartment, but the man was never caught.”  I could already tell where she was going in that first sentence.  I felt my mouth starting to drop open in shock?  Relief?  She continued her story while I tried to figure out how I felt.  “A few days ago, the detective who worked my case called me to tell me that the man who attacked me had been caught.  No, he’d been killed.  By you.  She confirmed it with a DNA test.”   

         I couldn’t believe it, but when we exchanged stories I knew it had to be true.  With the first inkling of comfort and assurance, I returned to the greenhouse to tell the flowers.  But when I got there, there was no response, none of them even turned to peer at me.  They were gone.