Wasted Blooms

“You’re taking this crush awfully seriously, my darling.” Her mother’s bemused tutting. “Isn’t she? When did twelve year olds get so bold?” Her father’s teasing chuckle, accompanied by large palms squishing her freckled face into the best impromptu impression of a fish she could manage. “…I hope…it goes well…” Her brother’s whispered encouragements.

Today is the day.

The walk to the Hastings house wasn’t so long that she would break a sweat, especially not with her long stride – it was honestly one of the few times she was happy to have shot up the height chart like a weed. A familiar path; she had walked it often enough with her brother and their classmates, among them the Hastings boys. That was something people always praised as village charm: everyone knew everyone from the time they were kids to their days as old gray biddies. Effie didn’t know when she first took notice of Arthur Hastings. After she’d noticed Percival, of course. No one could ignore Percival. He was even taller than the pair of ginger twins and he never gave flack to Hugh for his quiet shyness. That made him alright in Effie’s book; and earned him a few sweets when she and her mother got to baking. ‘It’s always nice to be a kind neighbor, my love. Kind but not nosy.’ She didn’t know if he and his family ever ate them, but she hoped the thought might brighten things in their house. …Her parents never let her go over there. Hugh wasn’t allowed either. She never questioned why. Kind but not nosy. Unlike the quiet Percival or the shy Hugh or the obedient Effie, Arthur Hastings was a firecracker. Sharp-tongued and quick-witted…and he was choice in those frames of his. Hugh chalked it up to her being fascinated by a ‘bad boy’ type – anyone that got into mischief with Sally Boyle had to be nothing good, he’d said. Effie disagreed; she saw in Arthur things that she didn’t possess, things to be admired. Maybe that was what had sparked her crush. She didn’t know. It didn’t matter.

Her musing had been so all encompassing that she hadn’t even noticed that she’d reached the Hastings house. Her grip on the bouquet of flowers tightened as did the nervous chill in her chest. Arthur and Percival puttered about in the yard, a few other children loitered too – maybe they’d been playing a game? Oh…she felt queasy. Maybe she-- A hand came to rest on her shoulder. Hugh. That twin sense of theirs was really something; either that or he knew she’d chicken out and came to cheer her on. Whatever the reason, she appreciated it; the nervous twitch to her lips eased into a sheepish smile. Today is the day…

“A…Arthur? Do you…would you maybe want to catch a picture…w-with me sometime?” Bouquet was offered, the whiteness of the blooms almost glowing against the crimson that filled her freckled cheeks. It probably looked absolutely ridiculous. A girl a head taller, offering a boy a bouquet of flowers like he was the skirt in all this. There were some muffled chuckles, a snort or two suddenly cut short as Hugh leveled a glare towards the spectators. Not that Effie could see. Her eyes were squeezed so tightly shut that she could see stars, a soft crinkling of the bouquet’s wrapping as it buckled under her trembling grip. His answer… “…Get real, Carrots.” Gray eyes blinked open, wide with confusion as she glanced to his face. Scarlet as roses to the tips of his ears, brows knit with…frustration? Humiliation? She didn’t know, but it was nothing good. And it was all directed at her. At Carrots. Tall and lanky and ginger-haired. Her. His arms crossed after a hurried push of the flowers into her chest, scowling through his embarrassment. “What do I look like? A rabbit or something!” A quick quip but the laughter of their peers that followed was thunderous – deafening. Flowers dropped to the floor like her jaw. She’d never known that a sound could weigh so heavily, be so crushing. Heat stung at the back of her eyes as tears brimmed and threatened to overflow. “…….You could’ve fooled me with those buck teeth of yours.” Hugh. Shy Hugh. He must’ve mustered every ounce of courage in his anxious frame to speak up for her; the hand that took hers and pulled her away from the group of snickering boys was shaking. His back between her and the leers of the laughing boys who tossed jeers of their own after them, the chant of ‘Carrots’ following their steps. Her first taste of love tasted of bitterness and the salt of tears.

It wasn’t a hand that crashed against her playmate’s back, but the blunt end of a baton. A shrill cry briefly reached her ears – a blip of failure in the warm fog of Joy enshrouding her brain – but was quickly replaced by pleased, if not slightly unnatural, giggles. Like a sound dubbed over a scene in a film, not quite matching up but not so far off that it’d take one out of the experience. There wasn’t much time for her to think on this strange inconsistency; a pile of her fellow Bobbies were on the scene, a frenzied mess of swings, stomps, and…a sickening crack or two.

The last snapped her from her daze as something warm and viscous spattered across the front of her uniform. Some of it had even gotten onto her nice white gloves! It was the viscous feel as she rolled digits together that got her to drop her gaze. A pretty green hue, like the color of---.

Another blip.

--Red. It was such a stark, dark red against the white of her gloves. Not the comforting pink of Strawberry Joy or the candied tint of sweets. No…this was…blood? Blood? Like…L-like when that Downer dragged the jagged edge of a broken scotch bottle down the side of her brother’s face. There’d been so much of it—even the white of his eye had been dyed that dark, violent shade of crimson.

Chortles were replaced by wet gurgles, a sound that made gray eyes snap upwards towards the scene before her. Broken. Mangled. Sobbing. A man begging for his life beneath the weight of the officers that were meant to protect it. A dozen other faces and figures overlaid the vision – memories. The clatter of her baton hitting the ground was deafening, ringing in her ears as she frantically fished at her pockets. Joy. Where was her Joy?! Bile rose in the back of her throat, the sour sting of it filling her mouth.

Palms braced against cool porcelain seconds before Effie emptied the few contents of her stomach into the bowl. Even minutes after, as she slumped onto the bathroom’s tiles, she still felt the wretched spasms in her stomach and the shivers that accompanied a cold sweat. She’d thought that the agony of withdrawal would have been the worst of it. But she was wrong.