Author's Note: Ahh! More Creative Writing assignments! This one was supposed to combine imagery and character. Not much to say, but... eh, it was early in the year--not my best, but I'm still fond of it.

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The Sunflower

D. A. Giehl

I don't mind the house, because there's always the garden.

It snakes around the front yard, a mass of rainbows against the dull brown of the house. They contrast and fight each other. The garden is winning, and the ivy has conquered the house's right side.

The door spits me out and the cool grass catches me, mud licking my bare toes and leaving kiss marks on my ankles. The afternoon air gives back the breath my mother's room had stolen.

My garden reaches high above the fence. It pleads to be cut, though mother won't allow it. It hides us, she tells me. Two trees mark the garden's corners, rigid sentinels with overgrown arms, blocking the house from the street's gaze. The pathway rolls out proudly to the gate, perfectly swept. Mother doesn't like mud on her boots.

Flowers' perfume beckons and I kneel before the snapdragons and bluebells. I like their scent much more than my mother's, but of course I can't tell her that. "Hello, your majesties," I find myself saying to them, and the snapdragons suck my fingertips in greeting and the bluebells dance in the wind. With the rusted tin watering can, I give them their rain, and they turn their leaves up to catch the drops.

The sky is darkening above me, and a few stars have already blinked their way into view. Throwing orange, pink, and purple to the clouds, the sun falls to the faraway mountains. I watch the sunset and forget the house behind me, forget all that lies inside. Beside me, the sunflower watches as well.

The sunflower is my favorite. I didn't plant any sunflowers this spring--this one simply sprang up one day, a tiny protrusion from the soil amid the strawberries. It probably rode the wind here, though I can't imagine why it chose this garden.

Sunflowers always face the sun. I remember that from a book I once found in the boxes mother keeps in the closet. Mine watches the sunset with its back to the house. Its leaves shrug and fall slightly limp, and the flower seems to sigh. I wonder if it's dreaming of freedom, and I wonder if it wants to leave me.

Night's breath is at my neck--it will be cold soon, and mother will call me inside. She always goes out at night and leaves me home, but even then I'm not allowed to be outside. Standing, I let the watering can trail from one hand and put the other into my mouth, tearing the nail from my ring finger. Mother's not watching me yet--the door is closed and the windows blinded by their curtains. A bit more time. I have a bit more…

"Hey!"

The tin watering can clamors to the ground.

"Hello?"

An unfamiliar voice, coming from near the gate. A girl, younger than me, stands there with her face pressed between the iron bars, a mix of confusion and interest on her face. The branches of the guard-trees hang low over her head and could grab her at any moment.

"You new?"

My breath hitches in my throat again. I can't hide now--she's already seen me. Mother's words scream in my ears: hide from eyes at the gate! I try to shake my head, but my neck is stiff. Panicking, I look behind me, but the house is still and silent. My mother is not watching.

"I never seen a kid near this house--only that lady. She move away? My mom never liked 'er. Said she was right dirty… you new?"

"No," I tell her quickly. A practiced lie forms on my lips: "I… I don't live here."

The girl looks disappointed. "Oh."

"You should go home. My… my aunt, she'll be angry…"

"Well, this garden's pretty." The girl reaches in through the gate and prods at a rose. An excited smile spreads across her face and she points to the tulips. "Can I have a tulip for my mom? They're her favorite!"

I pause. "If… if I give you the flower, will you go home…?"

She nods, and I quickly bend down to pluck a small purple tulip from the masses of them beneath the roses. "Here. Now you have to go. Please…"

The girl smiles, pets the flower's petals, and looks at me with adoring eyes. "Thank you!" My neck prickles and my cheeks burn--I've seen people smile like that on mother's old television, but nobody has ever looked at me like that.

As she trots away, braided pigtails whipping out behind her, I lower myself to the ground and grip the gate's bars, pressing my face against the creeper vines. Mother didn't see, she didn't see.

The door slams and rattles on its hinges behind me.

Mother's standing there, hands on her leather-skirted hips, eyes burning like coals. Her lips pursed, she stares at me and waves her finger for me to come. "Jake."

I press my back against the gate, willing the creepers to wrap around me and hide me from her view. The girl is already halfway down the street, skipping down the hill. I wish I could follow her. "Mother, she… I couldn't hide…"

"Come inside. And hurry, I've got to go to work."

She holds the door open for me and waits. Stretching out before me, the brick path bids me farewell for the night just as the sun falls behind the mountains. Up the steps and into the house, I do not meet my mother's eyes as the door swallows me.

"Jake." Mother closes the door and leans against it, bare shoulders smooth against the splintering wood. "Jake, dear. I've told you not to speak to them."

"Yes, mother." Sitting on the couch, I hang my head. If I look up to meet her eyes, she'd see it as a challenge. I've learned not to challenge my mother. My hand slides up and down my shoulder under the ragged shirt and the other is a trembling fist in my lap.

"I've told you not to trust them," mother tells me, twirling one finger through her black hair. "They'll be ashamed of you for what you do not have, and what you are. Do you understand, Jake?"

"Yes, mother." She's told me this before. I understand more than she thinks I do. She's ashamed of herself and me; she's ashamed of what she does. She wanted to be alone, a shadow at night, unknown. I ruined it. She's afraid of what lies beyond the gate, and what will happen if people are invited beyond the rusty hinges, wound with creepers. Mother fears the outside's gaze. But if I were allowed to go beyond the gate, I could bring the gazes to her. I cannot do that.

Mother gives a lipstick smile, and I know I'm allowed to look up again. "We cannot let them see us, Jake. They can't know me, and they can't see you. Do you understand?"

I nod.

"Good. Do not speak to them again, Jake." She slings her leather purse over her shoulder and looks out the window. "I'm going to work. You know not to leave the house. You can--oh, Jake! That sunflower!"

Following her eyes, I can see my sunflower standing in the middle of the garden, still staring at the black mountains. Mother turns to me and continues, "It's fully grown now. I want it in my room--will you cut it for me, Jake, and put it in a vase while I'm out?"

Cut it…?

Mother notices my blank stare and nods to me. "Get the scissors from the kitchen; there's a vase in the cupboard. Put it on my dresser, will you…? Near my makeup box. I've got to go now--I'll be back by the time you're awake tomorrow."

I'm still staring out the window as she leaves, striding down the brick path and pulling her black leather skirt higher. The tap of her high heels fades into the distance as she swings the gate open and vanishes down the street. She'll catch a taxi to the city I've never seen down the road.

The sun's rays start to fade as I stare at the flower through the window. Cut it, mother had said, and I know better than to disobey. If it's not in the vase by the time she comes home, mother will be angry with me. After some time--minutes? an hour?--I rise from the couch and fetch the scissors from the kitchen. Rusty things, they're heavy in my hand. Dangerous.

The sunflower doesn't move as I approach it from behind. Its leaves have fallen to its sides with the cold and the burst of petals ruffles lightly in the night breeze. My sunflower won't look at me. I don't want it to.

I stare at the flower's back until the street light flickers on and makes me jump. It's getting late, and I know mother would scold me for not being in bed yet. The house's gaze burns into my back as I put the blade to the sunflower's neck.

Still, the flower does not move. I know it's dreaming of freedom now. Closing my eyes, a simple movement of my hand closes the scissor blades, and the stem snaps.

My sunflower crumples. Its white blood sticks to my hands, though I wipe them furiously against my jeans. I'm trembling again and can't control it, and it isn't from cold. I can't even see my breath yet. The sunflower's severed stem is as long as my arm and felt stiff when I cut it, but now it's weak in my hands. I cradle the flower and carry it inside. Water, it will be better with water.

The vase is tall with a thin neck like mother's, and the sunflower leans against it, staring down. The petals are growing pale already--or is that a trick of the light? I bite my lip until it stings.

Mother's room is dark and I grope for the light switch. Her dresser, splintered as everything else in the house, awaits me at the opposite wall, one of two pieces of furniture in the chamber. The other is mother's bed, a small mass of sheets and clothing in the corner. Mother's scent is everywhere--a thick mix of different perfumes. I cough and my nose stings. Clutching the vase to my chest, I push the piles of makeup to the wall, coating my arm with all kinds of powders and smearing something black across the wood. Mascara.

"Here you are," I tell the flower in a cracked voice. The sunflower still hangs its head, staring at the smear of makeup. It will not look up. It hasn't drunk the water yet. It will be better by morning.

I leave the light on before going to bed. Sunflowers need light.

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Mother's not home like she said she'd be in the morning. She never is. From my room down the hall I see only darkness through her door; the light burnt out during the night. The perfume scent and hot, heavy air weigh down on me, and my hand grips the opposite shoulder. Through the shutters, six streams of steady light show the dust that drifts through the air. I heave them open, though mom hates it when her shutters are open because she sleeps all day. The dirty, cracked window doesn't let much light through to begin.

My sunflower has drunk half its water, but it is still staring at the dresser. It will not turn to face the sun. The leaves have fallen to its sides, brown at the tips. The petals are flimsy. The water itself has turned an ill green in the light from the window.

It will get better, it just needs to drink and have the sun.

I change the sunflower's water and clean the window. Mother will be angry, but she will not want to see the sunflower like this, either. I nudge the vase closer to the window and try to flush the perfume scent from the room.

My sunflower's stem bends and slumps against the vase's lip. The leaves curl at the edges and become stiff at my touch.

"Don't worry," I whisper. "You will get better. It'll be alright."

But my eyes sting and my hands tremble. I remember the sight of the sunflower against the sun. The weight of the scissors in my fingers. I cut it. It won't get better.

My sunflower is dying, and by nightfall it is dead.

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End Note: Parital credit for this goes to my friend Scott, who came up with the premise of a boy being hidden from the world by his mother. The rest we worked out together.

Thank you for reading, and please leave a review!