The Plant

The young woman sits on her haunches, examining the rare plant that I pointed out. It is a spidery thing, all tendrils and thin, curling shoots with one large, dark flower right in the center.

“Why is it so rare?”

Because it kills. But I can’t tell her that.

“People were afraid of it, the color being so unnatural. They burned it whenever they found it. This is the only specimen of which I am aware.”

“Were the fears founded?”

“There is no documentation of anyone being harmed by it.”

Because we destroyed every last scrap.

She leans in closer, one slender finger outstretched. She closes the distance so slowly that the movement is nearly undetectable. Finally fingertip and flower touch. The blossom unfolds, long, velvety petals a deep midnight blue. Yellow headed stamens, heavy with pollen sway free of their confines. A heady perfume wafts to us, but my body is trained to resist it. The silly girl inhales deeply.

“The smell is unique.” She takes another whiff. “Like Jasmine, but combined with something acidic…”

I watch the thin tendril snaking up her back. The poison has numbed her slightly – she can feel, but not a touch this light.

The plant wraps itself around the young woman’s neck like some macabre necklace.

Now she can feel it. Her hands fly to her neck. As realization dawns in her eyes her fingers claw madly at the vine. She is pulled to the ground.

The young woman’s fingers rake furrows through the dark soil. It smells earthy: warm and rich and damp. Spotty sunlight filters through the thick canopy of leaves overhead dancing shadows along moss-covered trunks.

Her foot contacts a stone, sending it tumbling into the rippled water of a small brook. The splash sends a handful of birds to the sky in fright. Their bright wings beat the still air and dislodge a smattering of leaves, sending them down to brush our faces and arms.

The young woman chokes on a sob. Tears run from her dark eyes and disappear into her dark hair.

Her lips move, trying to call my name perhaps? To beg for mercy? To beg for death?

And then it is over. She is still. Her glazed eyes stare into mine.