You are considered a threat to the status quo and the British Government has every intention of… Extinguishing you…

All I do is grow flowers in my greenhouse. How could I–

It’s not the flowers, Mack. You know that.

They’re just daisies. Of course some of them are very rare…

The British government couldn’t give a shit about your daisies. What they care about is–

I know! I’ll go to Morry’s store and get some baby powder. That’s what this one needs.

You’re not listening, Mack! They are going to kill you out here!

No, you’re not listening Sandra! Have you ever heard a flower grow?

BAM BAM BAM!! Mack was flung by the impact, doing what looked like a slow-motion cartwheel, white robes and blood spinning through the air and then ultimately settling on the slate tile. Sandra stared, hands gripping the edge of the table to keep her knees from giving out.

You didn’t have to do it here… With all his plant friends to watch.

Where was I supposed to do it? Slate’s easier to clean Sandy. What was all that bullshit about the British government?

I couldn’t help it. I was trying to get him to think about something other than daisies for once.

It wasn’t working.

I had to warn him you’d be coming.

Well, Amanda lifted Mack’s shoulder revealing a lake of blood underneath. He went quick enough. She gently rested his shoulder back on the slate. You comin’ with me?

Sandra looked down to her hands still gripping the edge of the table. Slowly, she relaxed and let go, pushing herself to her feet. You’re such a fucking bitch. She walked down the isle between the tables of daisies and out through the open greenhouse door.

Amanda looked at the gun in her hand. Placed it on the table beside some pruning shears. Ran some water in the plastic basin sink. Washed her face. And went out through the same open doorway.

Mack’s dead eyes stared at a column of tiny ants making their way from one of the flowerpots to a half-eaten pastry that had been knocked to the ground. The ants were working as hard as they could to satisfy their queen.

NOBODY is telling you to commit suicide. But if you did, there are services that would take your dog, put him someplace where, in all honesty, he might be a little happier than he is now. Dogs need to be around smart people. Or at least some place where they can be chasing and eating smaller animals. One or the other.

Don’t take any of this personally. But I’m just saying, if you HAVE the urge, don’t worry about it- we’ll take your old records, your books -I don’t know what you do with old books but I’m SURE someone will get them out of your apartment so it can be rented again to someone who, in all honesty, may take better care of it.

We will all be heartbroken, OF COURSE, when we get the call that your laptop screen is splattered with blood and grey matter from a self-inflicted gunshot wound. Heartbroken! But really -don’t worry about us! We’d be heartbroken for at least as long as the phone call takes, then we’ll bounce back. Tragedy is just that: tragedy. Just another GENRE, like comedy.

And the End of the World is just that: the End of the World. Someone taking their own life is not the end of the world. For us, anyway. So that’s what I’m saying- if you’re worried about us, don’t be. We’re fine. We’re not going to kill ourselves. We’re too busy out here. That’s what I’m saying: we have things to do. If anything, your sudden disappearance would make it easier for us to do those things. Finally, we would actually be able to get things done!

You first showed up here, at this intersection. It was raining- soggy grey hunks of paper on the sidewalk, grit washing down in purplish streams. At the time, I saw you as the answer to all my prayers. I moved mountains, I pulled off outrageous stunts to get us together. You were just that little girl in a purple raincoat and I was actually a cross between a badger and a ferret back then. Bulky, with a sleek ferret pelt, black, tarry blood always stuck around my lips and small, sharp snaggleteeth.

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