Midnight Petunia

A horror flash fiction

Her silence was always rewarded while her words - punished. She was a good girl. That’s what all the teachers said. A good girl, always quiet, always polite. The neighbours praised her - what a good daughter, always watering her Moma’s flowers.

Her school uniform was always neat, her hair brushed and perfect. Moma knew where to strike - her blisters were well hidden by the length of the uniform.

Always coming home right after school to water the flowers. Pots and boxes of bright pink and red petunias, her Moma’s pride and joy.

She wasn’t bright. She wasn’t pretty like the flowers. She had been quiet for so long; she forgot the sound of her own voice. She was a wallflower, invisible to everybody, because she had no voice. When they did address her, the other kids called her the Nobody.

On the day of the Prom she cried salty tears while watering the petunias. Tiny bitter drops dripped into the soil.

“Look what you did, little bitch!” Moma yelled and grabbed her by the hair. The brightest petunia had turned dark as the midnight hour. Moma wouldn’t listen to explanations. When she wasn’t silent or obedient, she was a bad girl. As Moma tried to smash the girl’s head against the kitchen counter, the voiceless girl grabbed a knife and stabbed. She stabbed and stabbed until Moma moved no more.

Now she was a bad girl. So, the bad girl went upstairs for a shower. She put on Moma’s best black velvet dress. She slipped Moma’s pearl necklace over her head, and coloured her lips bright-petunia-red. She smiled at the dark flowers as she went out - all the petunias bowed their luscious velvet-soft flowers to her, all midnight dark as her soul.

Her high heels clicked on the Prom dancefloor. All the boys ate up the sight of her. She danced every dance; she smiled as they whispered their dirty desire in her ear. But when the Midnight came, she walked out. Their drunk eyes did not comprehend what she did, until it was too late. She walked around the school leisurely, sprinkling gasoline here and there from a can. Then she set the whole thing ablaze. She laughed at the pyre - her voice had a new strength. Midnight hour burned bright, she laughed at them running around, flapping their burning arms like a swarm of insane moths, caught by the flames. She watched their velvet skin burn and turn dark, dark as her Moma’s flowers. Her voice was heard loud and clear. All bad girls burn in hell, that’s what Moma always told her. She looked at the flames and walked right into them. She became a dark flower, her velvet skin burning from bright pink-and-red to midnight dark.