Hanahaki
Andrea Zhou It’s pink. The curve softens at its edges as she lays it onto the counter with delicate unease. A strange look of denial crosses her face. She coughs again— a second petal joins the first, as vibrant as the former. Peonies. She recognizes. His favorite. The fragrance washes her face and brushes her hair. It distracts her. It smells like him. “Kenneth,” she whispers. The two syllables resound silently through the air. Coughing flows throughout the room; petals, scattering onto the counter. ___________________________________________________________________ “Your name is Amelia Taylor?” The doctor asks, looking through her round spectacles. Her question turns into a statement as the patient chokes out a few petals. “You have Hanahaki Disease. We offer you the option to surgically remove the flowers from your lungs. I am required to tell you that there is a five percent risk of death for this option, including a high possibility of staying at a mental hospital afterwards. The other option is to ask and hope that the other returns your affection.” Amelia shakes her head, refusing the surgery. She leaves four flowers on the chair. Petals rain onto the floor. ___________________________________________________________________ Do you love me, Kenneth? Will you be my savior? Her phone lies untouched next to her. Her courage tears apart; her pride is gone; her hopes squash into nothingness. She leans back on her deathbed and coughs up her last torrent of flowers and blood. During her funeral, bouquets of peonies flood her casket. |