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In his garden, V could think.
The gentle stillness of this sanctuary offered him a respite like no other, there was a sort of quiet here that he craved. It wasn’t like the quiet of his studio; Empty, abandoned, desolate. Somehow, the stillness there seemed manmade, it seemed like it was his fault. But out here, the grass, the sun, and the plants couldn’t question him, only offering him solace and understanding. In return for their unconditional kindness, V dedicated himself to nurturing the garden. He tended to a diverse collection of flowers and plants, each one receiving personal care - Serbian bellflowers. Geranium. Forget-me-nots. They all grew under his care. Except for one.
The daffodil.
V still remembers the day he went to pick it out for his garden. Having only just picked up gardening, he didn’t buy the seeds, instead opting for a plant that had already started to grow. The shopkeeper at the flower nursery had warned him that the particular daffodil he wanted had weak roots, that it shrivelled in the sun, and that they had much better buds to pick from. But he was enamoured. The droopy trumpet-shaped blooms, the beautiful yellow petals with its speckle of bug bites; dull but still persisting. He knew if he stayed devoted to caring for it, it would reach its fullest potential. And he had tried to keep his promise.
V had read that daffodils were easy-growing plants, and he became fixated on uncovering the reasons behind his daffodil’s poor condition and finding ways to nurse it back to health. He meticulously tended to the daffodil, ensuring it had fertile soil, consistent watering, and optimal sunlight. The longer he spent around the daffodil, he noticed he was getting sick. The headaches came first, followed by dizziness that left him reeling. Sleepless nights plagued him, filled with heightened anxiety and a gnawing sense of failure. He'd catch his fingers in his gardening shears, distracted by his relentless overthinking about the daffodil's care.
For many years, the daffodil stayed wilting at the heart of his garden. The daffodil remained implacable, almost as if held captive by the imploring rays of the sun, steadfastly refusing to revel in its warmth. His unwavering attention mirrored the insistence of those sunbeams, yet the daffodil continued to shy away. He inundated the daffodil with his affection, every drop of water a tear shed for a promise he frustratingly couldn't fulfil. He poured his very soul into the flower.
And yet.
The daffodil stood in the garden, resplendent in its defiance. Pathetically wilting and beautifully persevering. It was a gorgeous prisoner, locked within itself, refusing to unfurl its petals despite his desperate coaxing. V's heart ached with a mixture of love and resentment; he had invested so much of himself into this single bloom, only to be met with resistance. In reality, the daffodil never truly asked for this relentless care. Not that it could have known how. It was V who felt the obligation, always the artist; compelled to capture the beauty of something that never asked to execute his vision.
In the past, he had toyed with the idea of sacrificing the vibrant blooms around it. The thought of ripping out his thriving plants for the daffodil was a knife poised over the heart of his garden, ready to spill the lifeblood of his labour. He even considered that the other flowers were taking what the daffodil needed, though he knew deep down it wasn't true. His garden was a tapestry of relationships, yet the daffodil's refusal to bloom unravelled the vibrant threads, leaving only a tangled knot of obligation and failure. The other flowers in his garden were friendships in full bloom, each petal a testament to shared joy and mutual care. Though…His devotion to the daffodil was nocuous, wrapping around his soul, tightening with each unbloomed day. His sense of duty to the flower dragged him deeper and deeper into an abyss of guilt and obsession. Now, as he stood in his garden, contemplating the future, he felt the weight of his choices pressing down like a leaden sky. The garden around him, once a source of comfort, now seemed a battleground of his own making.
The daffodil, obstinate and silent, held him captive in a web of his promises. Would he betray all he had cultivated for the chance of a single bloom, or would he finally let go, allowing himself the freedom to nurture what truly thrived under his care?
V's gaze swept over the rest of the flowers, the ones that he had helped. Each one was a testament to his loyalty. There was physical evidence here in this garden that V was more than the result of his past, of his flaws. He had the ability to give love; to nurture. Yet, the daffodil’s refusal to grow and change alongside the others drowned out their quiet contentment. It felt unsatisfying. How could the rest of the garden be happy without the daffodil having the chance to bloom? How could he call himself a nurturer, call himself loyal, if he just gave up on the daffodil, after so many years of promises?
Trembling, V picked up his spade.
One by one, he uprooted the Serbian Bellflowers, the Geraniums, the Forget-Me-Nots, their once-proud forms now wilted in a heap. Each uprooted flower was a sacrifice, a piece of his soul torn away and made as offerings to the daffodil’s divinity. The unique colours of his garden faded, replaced by the dark, rich earth he hoped would finally nourish the daffodil.
He mixed the remains of his beloved plants into the soil around the flower, his heart aching with each turn of the spade. Each scoop of soil was a betrayal, he knew that, a dagger to the heart of friendships he had fostered and grown. He watered the soil, his tears mingling with the droplets, and whispered a desperate prayer to the stubborn bloom.
Yet, as he looked upon the decrepit state of his garden, V was stabbed with vicious pangs of regret. The faces of the flowers he had uprooted haunted him, their vibrant memories now reduced to decaying remnants in the soil. He couldn’t forgive himself for what he had done. The garden, once a testament to his care, now stood as a monument to his betrayal.
V wished he could die for the flowers, for his body to fertilise the garden in its entirety. Maybe then, his sacrifice would bring new life to all the plants, including the stubborn daffodil. Perhaps in his death, he could finally give the daffodil the nourishment it needed, and bring back the friends he had betrayed.
The garden, now barren save for the daffodil, seemed to mock him for this thought.
As V stumbled inside, tears streaming down his face, he reached up to rub his eyes, seeking to brush away the evidence of his sorrow. But as his fingertips made contact with his skin, a searing pain shot through his eyes, causing him to recoil in agony.
The poison of the daffodil, the lycorine hidden within its petals, still lingered on his hands, a venomous reminder of his failed attempts to coax the stubborn bloom into life. But V didn't wash his eyes, didn't rinse away the toxin that burned his vision. Instead, he welcomed the stinging pain, not for the first time, embracing it as a punishment he believed he deserved.
With each agonising moment, he felt the weight of his guilt pressing down on him, crushing him beneath its relentless burden. The tears continued to flow, mixing with the poison on his skin, a bitter cocktail of regret and remorse. Yet, even as the pain throbbed in his pitiful eyes, V remained rooted in place, his blurry eyes fixed on the mirror above the sink. In his mind, it was a small price to pay for the sins he had committed in the name of love.
But… the dirt…
He fumbled for the faucet, and the dirt from his hands stained the porcelain basin. The water ran clear at first, then brown as he scrubbed the earth away. He looked at his dirt-covered hands; the soil caked on like dried blood. Each swirl of dirt down the drain was a part of him, a fragment of his guilt washed away, yet the weight on his heart remained. V whispered apologies to the memory of his vibrant flowers, the words choked by his tears. He scrubbed harder as if he could cleanse the guilt from his soul. The dirt under his fingernails; the blood of his sacrifices.
The water turned cold, but he didn't stop. He couldn't stop. The daffodil's refusal to bloom was a constant ache, a reminder of his failure. The faces of the other flowers, sacrificed for a hopeless cause. V accepted the sinking feeling in his stomach. Accepted the persistence of the stains on his hands.
He turned off the faucet, hands cold. Sinking to the floor, his back against the cabinet, he wept until there were no tears left to shed. He had given everything for the chance of a single bloom. Now, all he could do was wait and hope that his sacrifice was not in vain, though he already feared it had been.
The bathroom door creaked open.
V’s heart skipped a beat as he recognized the familiar presence that entered the room. The honey-sweet scent. The yellow. The poison.
His daffodil.