Flowers from Timmy
March 31st, 2025 - By Madison Sanford
Timmy was sweet. He wasn’t the brightest or most outgoing 2nd grader, but he sure was sweet. Every Wednesday, right after school – 2:30 pm — Timmy would bring his mom a bouquet of fresh flowers. From tropical violets to exotic roses, they always appeared beautifully arranged by a skilled florist. Mom loved the flowers, especially on Wednesdays (when she usually felt the sickest, for whatever reason). She expected them; those bouquets. Mom knew Timmy’s $10 allowance was going to a good cause. Each colorful petal reminded her she was raising a good egg, and he always would be, no matter what.
Timmy didn’t talk much at school, which frustrated his teachers. He doesn’t speak to the other kids, ever. How do we know he’s learning if he doesn’t talk? Mom got mad. Timmy was perfectly fine; he was sweet, that’s the best thing a child can be. She tried to explain this; the flowers every Wednesday, but no, they wouldn’t listen. And as Mom got sicker, the flowers came more often; they became a Wednesday-Friday tradition, then a Wednesday-Friday-Saturday tradition, and before long, they were coming every day. One Monday, when Mom was asleep, Timmy began to fiddle with her nightstand, attempting to set the new flowers down (although it was a bit hard since the nightstand was overflowing with bunches of dead leaves and murky-watered vases), when he heard a loud noise.
KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK!
Mom's eyes shoot open. Someone is at the door. They never get visitors. Groggy, she slowly sits up to see Timmy, standing with a dark shadow cast across his face. He stares at her, and quickly, before she can even register the flowers, he scoops up every vase and bouquet off the nightstand and hurls them under her bed. KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK. Mom begins to stand, but winces at the pain of moving her back. Timmy, please, see who is at the door. With a horrified expression, Timmy places a finger over his lips. Shhhh. He shakes his head vigorously. His lip quivers. Mommy, no. Her son has never spoken before. Ever. KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK! OPEN UP! Mom stands. Honey, I have to. It’s okay. She moves across the floor, with a creak sounding after every step; the house is old.
Eventually, slowly turning the knob, she peaks out. To her surprise, there stood a short man in blue. Anyone home? Mom is confused. Before she can say anything, though, the man steps in and walks right past her, headed towards her bedroom. What are you doing? There’s a child in there! Mom runs after him, attempting to block the man, but he rudely ignores her. As he opens the door, the hazy and perfumed aroma of the room fills his nostrils. He puts a hand over his mouth. The man regards Timmy, who is standing in the center, pale. You got something to say, son? Timmy stares at him, unblinking. The man starts to move closer, and Timmy’s eyes dart to the bed. The man sees this and immediately looks underneath. Mom shouts. Timmy, get over here!
The man in blue slowly stands and pulls a walkie-talkie from his belt. Assist needed; body found. Body? It’s at that moment that Mom screams. It’s so loud; it almost shatters Timmy’s eardrums. For underneath the bed, the Man has discovered Mom. She’s asleep, she’s asleep. Tears are running down Timmy’s cheeks. He is still screaming. The man runs to him. She’s sleeping! She’s sleeping! The man holds him. It’s okay, son. She just got too sick from those flowers. Timmy sobs into the man's shoulder. If he had known that those flowers were only making Mom sicker, he would’ve never stolen them in the first place. They looked like roses, they looked like violets. Mom said she loved them. He can reverse it. He can put them back. It’ll all be okay. Mom is still here. You're always my sweet boy. But Timmy knows, he can’t be sweet again. He’ll also never be able to smell flowers again without bile creeping up his throat.
