A Flower That Never Bloomed

Among other things, young Sean Horton was excellent at timekeeping; every evening at 5PM exactly he would sit at the window ledge of his council flat and look down at the passing traffic. Lost between discarded wrappers and unwashed plates, he would peer out at the rush hour of lovers, hand in hand, and old women returning from their local Bingo hall. Teenagers in their school uniforms would rush by, heading home after an hour in the park.

For a while they would amuse Sean. He would hear the occasional private joke and laugh along, breathless, even wiping tears from his eyes at times. But whenever the clock struck half 5, the reality of his wretchedness always came crashing down around him. During the summer, beams of golden sunlight would shine through the glass and illuminate the mess of his dingy little dwelling. Dust would float around the air and Sean would stand there, bathed in orange, pitying himself.

Sean was utterly and completely alone in this world, he knew that, but he never liked to accept it. Instead, he kept a little hydrangea, hidden amongst the rubble of mess upon his kitchen table, as company. It sat perfectly so that over the top of a crisp packet it could see everything, from the fly-ridden fridge to the small, open-plan living-room, where a door in the corner led to a toilet. At night, when Sean would construct a makeshift bed on the sofa, his little blue hydrangea would guard over him, keeping him safe.

However, the only problem was, no matter how much Sean seemed to talk to his floral friend, it never seemed to bloom. Not in summer or winter. Not in thunder nor rain.

On one particularly warm morning, Sean had scheduled an hour slot between breakfast and reading time to spend chatting with his hydrangea. He knew how sad it sounded, and he certainly knew how sad it felt, but the truth was Sean had more in common with the flower than anyone he’d ever met. The flower didn’t mock him for his weight. Nor did it push him over at school and laugh as he cried. It just simply listened.

Sean’s big hazel eyes stared deep into the soul of the unopened flower as he grabbed an old plastic bottle full of tap water from the side. The edges were dirty and greasy fingerprints littered the sides, but Sean was sure his friend wouldn’t mind. Sean scrunched his face and began to concentrate as he poured half of the water down onto the flower, drenching its green leaves and drowning the soil. His gaze clung to the wet dirt, as though he were expecting the flower to suddenly shoot up, stretching its back, and sprout its head, tall and proud. But it didn’t. Just as it hadn’t the day before.

Sean clenched his eyes shut in disappointment, before shaking them open again and chugging the other half of the water. ‘That’s okay, boy. I was a late bloomer too.’ He crushed the plastic between his slimy hands and threw it towards a tower of cardboard where a bin had once been spotted. The bottle missed and bounced against the wall, landing atop a wine-stained rug in the living room.

‘Come to think of it, actually,’ Sean continued. ‘I’m not sure I ever bloomed either.’

There was an uncomfortable silence where a laugh should have been. The only sound for miles seemed to be the palpitations of Sean’s heart. It seemed to beat faster these days. Painfully so. He’d long considered consulting a doctor, but, truth be told, the thought of hospitals always scared Sean; there was something about the pale hallways and the eerie beeping of life machines that made his skin crawl. Besides, what would happen if his friend were to bloom whilst he was out? There’d be no-one to applaud. No-one to welcome its bursting bud into the world.

Sean inhaled, held the breath for as long as he could, and then exhaled the idea away. But even then, something inside him knew he was making a mistake.

Over the course of the day, his heart seemed only to beat faster and faster like a train on loose tracks. Sean grew tired, more tired than usual, and through his thin, short-sleeved shirt, a gallon of sweat seemed to seep through. There were moments where he found himself gasping for breath, but still he couldn’t leave. He had to be there for his friend.

Unfortunately for Sean, that was the last mistake he’d ever make, for as night crawled in, wrapping the sky in a cold dark blanket, he only felt worse. He could feel his arteries clogging, the blood inside trying so hard to reach his heart, but never making it. He could feel it all clot together. One moment he could breathe, and the next - he couldn’t.

Sean collapsed onto his sofa, falling between empty tin cans, and, rather than turning to his phone to call for help, he turned to his friend. The hydrangea was still there, undeveloped, watching from its little corner. In his final moments, as his head became lighter and lighter, and his chest hurt more and more, he stared once again into the soul of the flower; he’d hoped that, at least then, he might see it sprout. But even as he died, his friend never bloomed; and in the days that came to pass, as Sean’s body slowly rotted away, its petals only seemed to wilt anyway.

So it came to be, there the two friends lay forevermore; a man that never lived and a flower that never bloomed.