I am a mad man and I have no fear in declaring that fact to you. You do not know my name or my face or my street I live upon and I have no interest in telling you. The only reason why I’m writing to you is because I must confess in someone, otherwise I will end up spilling my secrets to those who could use it against me. As it is, my hand trembles each time my pen touches this paper. Whether it is out of fright or out of sheer exhilaration at finally telling what I do. I am not sure. I just wonder if I shall have a heart attack. My heart is racing faster then I ever thought was possible which is most likely not healthy at my old age. Even my gardening does not quicken my pulse this much.. In fact, it does the utter opposite. It calms me. Relaxes me. Helps me through the day. It never excites me as much as writing this confession has.
I’ve always been a gardener. It runs in my blood. My father was a world class gardener up until the day he abruptly died when I was twelve years old. I will not pretend for one second that I was sad at his passing. He was a man who enjoyed the taste of drink and his many women over his only child who was a small stupid weed of a boy and a constant reminder of his deceased wife. I wish so much that he had hit me.
Beat me until I was bloody.
Beat me until I was deformed.
He never touched me once. Instead he did something much worse. He ignored me! He never talked to me! Never even acknowledged I was a living breathing entity. I could have died in the same room, as he and he wouldn’t have realized until the stench of my rotting flesh overpowered the stench of his drink. The only thing I’m glad I have of his, is his talent of gardening.
At twelve, when I discovered my talent, it was like a hallelujah chorus. After the first I felt so enlivened! I ached for more!
I gardened while I was in the orphanage. When I was adopted by a kindly elderly couple. In the War. All of my adult years so far. It filled up the void my father had left in me.
I’ve kept track of every garden that I’ve ever made and kept a small souvenir from each. From mums to daisies, each one represents a special memory. Every time I look at my collection it brings back such a rush of vivid memories.
First I bury the flower in the ground and watch it grow. When it passes its prime I slowly peel off the skin. Then I rip off the petals chunk by chunk until only the stem and head are left. I break the stem in three places and then pop off it’s head. I carefully dig up the bottom and enlarge the hole. I throw every piece into the hole except for the small memento that I save for my collection.
It is all very good fertilizer.
The most interesting part of these proceedings? The aftermath. When people wonder where the flower has gone. I want to laugh at there stupidity. I want to tell them what happened but I always resist that urge.
You people don’t appreciate us gardeners. You have no idea the artistic power behind our urges. You frown upon it! Simple-minded fools! You don’t understand the sense of relief; the sense of power you get from doing this! It makes me feel like a God and you are all just possible victims of my rage.
It’s all reassurance that I get justice for the sin of not having a normal childhood.
At twelve I promised myself that I would never stop. I will not. Not ‘til the day I die. But I’ve had such a close relationship with Death I don’t think I will die. Our relationship has long been Mentor and Student. When my time comes I know Death shall choose me to inherit the Dark Angels position of picking and choosing who shall live and die.
I shall live on through immortality reaping this land and gardening the mortal souls of this wretched world.
You just keep smelling these flowers.
Just know you will blossom into one.