>•~Falling Upwards~•<

Chapter Four: To Help a Flower

Sometimes I wonder,
What is the point of all of this?
To put in so much work,
Only to have it be over looked;
Only to be replaced,
By a cheap copout of what is mine.

Should I just drop it?
Should I just let go of my gift?
Is this all just a waste of my time?
After all, what use is putting in effort,
For it to all be blown away.

In my hands,
I hold too many seeds,
Too many flowers to grow,
I chose one, but now I question my choices.

Perhaps if I had chosen a seed,
With more structure; with more chances,
Of success.

Perhaps, I wouldn't be here.
I wouldn't be questioning my chances.

If only I could find joy in that.

No, but this is who I am supposed to be,
I am told I am good at what I do.

But I have eyes; I can see.
I can see the rates of my success in this;
I can see my mistakes.

What a shame,
To pour myself into this,
Only for it to fall back down;
Dead.

If only I could enjoy,
Enjoy what will bring me success.
If only what would make them proud,
Would make me proud as well.
I was told if I nurture my seed,
It would grow to a beautiful flower.

I see the question,

To choose happiness,

Or to choose wealth.

I see the outcomes,

If I choose wealth, then I will be well off, but not content,

If I choose what brings me me joy, then,

*~*

(A few days later...)

~C~

The sun rises, to claw at my face. Slowly it comes; each of its rays clings onto the edge of our world to stay on. As the day awakens, so do I. Of course, this being at the fault of the sun.

How come something, so mighty as the sun, comes to me? Here I lay, too weak to pull my own weight. Here I lay, only beginning to come back to life. Why does the sun care? Why does the sun come to me?

I yawn. I suppose the sun makes time for us all. Then at night, it slips back down, and we are all left in the darkness. That is when we should long for the sun; when the dangers we are unprotected from, come out.

In its defense to protect us all, the sun burned down the whole world. It had completed its goal. It had protected us from all dangers that could hurt us. Yet, it spreads its love too far. It suffocates us all, in an attempt to make us remain with it, where it can always be watching.

Now we live in its sandy bowl. There is almost nothing obstructing its eternal watch over us. All has been sizzled down, until only sand remains. So kept underneath the sun, are we, that we become torched alive, until nothing then our blazing corpses remain.

I let out a sigh. I watch April and August farm away outside. They continue to strike me dumb. Both at how easily they just accepted me in, how they continue to take care of me, and how they both have similar names. Now, I know they have had no relations before this mess started.

However, that just feels off.

No, I know that they are good people. I am just overthinking. After all, spending days having nothing to do, but sit with my thoughts, has ought to take a toll on myself. Perhaps this was April's plan all along: to bore me to death, so I am forced to work.

Probably not. I gently lift the bandage tightly knit around my lower torso. It looks ugly. Not as ugly as a week ago, but still hideous. (A/N: Gore warning! (Just goes into depth on the wound)) A dark red scab has sprawled out over me. It itches, it itches very much, but I know better than to mess with it. Dark blue and purple possible bruises surround the area, with some of these following other parts of my body.

Puss follows some of the areas, although April comes every night before supper to redress my wounds. Bless her soul for the work she does. Oh, it is just so vile. She rubs a green paste over it. I asked once what it was made from, but she just whacked me with the bandages.

I see her now. She holds a small basket by her side. Tentatively, which happens to be very unlike her, April takes her time to pluck the assortments of little crops off of their stems. Sometimes off of the ground, as well. Many of these happen to be potatoes. The relentless potato can withstand any climate, even this doomsday setting.

August works on the other side of her. He carries a bucket with some of the remaining water left. August rocks back and forth between both of his feet, to keep his stance. He is very cautious to not let a precious drop slip out from his grasp.

I sigh, and sink further into the couch. I wonder what my purpose is. Am I just to exist to add onto their stories? To add to the heroes they will become; to paint them out as better people who took care of the marginalized?

Perhaps that is what I am. Just another point in the plot. Over these past few days, I have gotten glimpses at who I was. Not full memories, but just a whiff of a past feeling or emotion.

Some of these have occurred regularly. Others, not as much. A main one, was the feeling for a dream. A dream to become someone great, and protect those who cannot properly defend themselves. A dream to be the someone others can look up to.

That has been the main one. I may just be delusional, and none of this was real. This might just all be coming from my head. Maybe there was not a past-me. Maybe in the "past", I just was no one at all.

However, I can see this land being full of hopes and dreams. I watch August tend to even the smallest pea plants. Even the only two people I know, hold big dreams. I remember hearing a phrase once at how each and every one of us are given a talent. To let it flourish; to let it grow, we must water it every day until it grows to be a strong flower. Similar to what August continues to do now.

He bends down to tend to each individual plant. At supper the other day, he was telling April and I about genetic diversity, even in something so simple as a little pea plant. There, the plants' flowers hold multiple colors. Red, white, and pink. Red is more dominant than white, and is often passed on, with the white's recessive gene sometimes reoccurring in red-flowered pea plants that are carriers to it. Pink is a blend of the two colors. It shows incomplete dominance to either, and instead takes on a blend of them.

Somehow even pea plants can be so complex, too. Yet, August has his way of explaining these subjects so someone like me is capable of understanding. That is one of the qualities I like in him, no matter who you are, he will listen to you and respect who you are. I like to believe I am the same. I choose to see who people are from the ways they act.

As I stare wearily at the pea plants, I get this feeling of longing again. I miss someone. Someone I do not know. Someone who might as well be dead. Why do I care so much for this unknown person?

Two of the plants catch my attention. They wind up together, as they grow upwards. Pea plants are not meant to survive this weather; they enjoy cool and dewy atmosphere. The desert world that we live in holds none of that. Against all odds, they survive.

A few of the flowers have come together. All in a huddle, they sit. Their petals droop down. May they be in mourning? I am no pea-expert, so I cannot tell.

All I do is watch, as one by one they drop their petals.