The Day I Bloomed

Most kids my age want a new phone for their thirteenth birthday. I just wanted a pair of garden shears and a place where no one would hear the screaming. I was kidding about the shears – I have my own thorns. I looked down at my hands. To anyone else, they were just normal hands. But to me, they were thorns, my main weapon. My black serrated nails were scraping across the concrete wall. They felt somewhat thirsty as I watched Marco through the window, he was out there, kicking a ball against the wall. To the rest of the neighborhood, he was an ordinary boy. But to me, he was a messy weed that was stuck in the middle of my path. I don’t have any friends, not that I want them anyway, but it’d be fun to see how easily they wither. I headed outside to the front yard to lure my bait just like how a Venus flytraps capture their meals. I sat on the bench with the book about ‘The Encyclopedia Of Toxic Blooms’ That my parents had gifted me for my thirteenth birthday. “Hey Marco!” I called out, my voice as smooth as a fresh petal. He jogged over, unsuspecting and bright in his yellow shirt. I held out the book and pointed to a flower with jagged petals and whispered, “the book says this one is a master of disguise. Just like me.” “there’s also this flower that means ‘farewell’ I thought it was appropriate for today” I explained. Marco looked at the book, examining it carefully. The poor soul had no idea he was staring at his own fate. The book felt dry upon my thirsty thorns, I needed something relishing. “Do you want to see a flower that only blooms for five minutes? It’s over there,” I spoke slowly and assuring. “Sure!” he beamed like a sunflower in the noon heat. So, I lured him into my garden, but we didn’t stop there, we went deeper into my secret lair, where I would test how sweet their nectar was. My thorns were twitching, it was parched. I knew Marco was going to be a little too sweet, I could smell the scent of his nectar from all the way here. We were finally there, in the middle of an unlit patch where he leaned down to see the flower I’d promised. My thorns didn’t just scratch, they unfurled. My skin split like ripening husk revealing the notched, wet, nectar-thirsty teeth of a mouth that hadn’t eaten in thirteen years. Before he could even scream, my thorns were in his throat, and the garden floor began to ripple, the roots rising up to drag his yellow shirt down into the dark, welcoming dirt. I wasn’t just a kid anymore; I was finally in full horrific bloom.