Chapter Text
(POV: Bree)
The suns warmth prickled over my skin as I followed behind my mother, who guided me further into these blooming fields.
An orange butterfly flew past her, disappearing somewhere behind me. And that was just one sign of this gardens wonderful, colerful life. No matter how old or tall I was, whenever I was here, I felt so small within this nature.
„I‘ve got a new batch of carnations growing up ahead, you‘ll love them, Bree Bee.“ Mother spoke.
„Carnations? “ I tested the word.
„It took me longer than I expected to get them to blossom, but after trying so hard, here they are now.” She smiled, her hazel eyes locking in with my heterochromnic Brown and green pair of eyes.
Both her pair of glasses and her chestnut short hair reflected the suns light, the latter shimmering orange, oddly similar to my natural ginger hair, though that was tied in a braid right now. Mom and I looked so similar like that, but once you looked closer, we were so different. Perhaps our mediocre tanned skin and the light freckles were the only thing that wasn't one too many shades off when comparing.
“Ah, look Bree, there they are!” Mother pointed to the freshly blooming carnations.
“Pretty.” Was I all said, gaping at the colours.
For a brief moment I glanced back at Mom, smiling, but then…
Why were the flowers red?!
Wait… did somebody pour a canister of colour over them?
I looked around, searching for the culprit… but everything else in the garden was painted red too.
… no, not painted.
Whatever flowers had been there before, now they were replaced by Poppies.
And then the smell kicked in.
It was metallic, like… like when I got my finger cut when I was five.
But now it was everywhere.
“Mom? What's hap-“, The question got stuck in my throat as I looked at her, at the spot were she should have been standing.
She was gone.
I couldn't think, I could just feel.
Fear, Confusion, Terror.
My eyes darted around the sickingly red garden, twisting and turning around more than I could count.
There, in the blood soaked carnations, with Poppies growing in between, was a rock.
“Here lies Margaret Heathers born Avery, loving Mother and Wife. 1968 – 1994. R.I.P.”
It was a grave.
I wanted to scream, to shout, to cry, but I couldn’t.
I couldn’t move, I was frozen in Place.
This was just a dream, this HAD to be a dream, right?
Voices echoed around me, too broken to make out all of them.
“Kid, ... sorry, … … is dead.”
“…What?”
“Dad, are… okay?”
“I’m fine, … busy … work. Playtime… me.”
…
“Stay … … Aunt, … don’t … time.”
“… have to go …, Bree, I trust … to behave, …right?”
“See you later, …!”
“…, Bree, I’ll see … two later. … wish you … … great time without me. “
No, no, no, come back, please!
Mom?
Dad?
DAD?!
DON’T LEAVE, DON’T LEAVE, PLEASE! MOM, DAD?
WHY DID YOU GO WHY???
…
I don’t want to be alone.
…
Please.