The yellow flowers on his shirt contrasted sharply with the navy blue. It was like the grandmother with the purple flowers- flashy and meant to look good, when really it was just as tacky as the person wearing it. The flowers the grandma wore didn’t make her a lady, and the son’s yellow Hawaiian-style shirt didn’t make him any more fun or any less dull and angry. The only truth that lay in these two objects was the crimson blood stains that littered the objects. Little splatters on the shirt and on her crooked, crushed flowers. There was no greater truth than their own deaths, and it was the only bit of honesty that ever existed in their lives.