Hyacinths
He walks in the double doors at the entrance to the school, laden backpack slung over his right shoulder, right hand dripping the strap with pale knuckles. A young man with a troubled past making him regret ever having the nerve to be born. Regret, over the years, has been forged by drunk fists into white hot veins of anger. Evident in the classroom and no stranger to the principles office, he has been learning how to use his fists as hammers, trying to forge those around him. Now that he is across the threshold, apprehension grows with every step and a cold sweat breaks over his brow. He walks through a sea of faces, seeing friendly eyes in none of them. His bag is heavy and grows in weight as he nears the cafeteria.
Like lifting a stone for one of the great pyramids, the young man slings the pack from his shoulder and lets it drop onto the top of the table where he usually eats alone. His nerves have settled into a heavy understanding of what he’s going to do. Out of his back pocket, he produces a pack of cheap cigarettes stolen from his drunk father with hammers for fists. He lights the white end of the cigarette he holds in his mouth and inhales deeply and slowly with his eyes closed in ecstasy. When the smoke has settled in his lungs, he exhales, and reaches into his backpack. There are no books in his backpack today, instead his hands grasp at the stems of hyacinths.
The murmuring around the young man stops when he pulls the flowers out from the depths of shadows and into the light. This first bouquet of hyacinths are spread around the room, and the kids nearest the young man fall with surprised and scared looks permanently etched upon their faces. The rush of adrenaline has intoxicated the young man and he reaches again into his pack to reload his sweaty palms. He walks around the school, spreading flowers to his scattering, screaming classmates. Some of the flowers he brought are meant for any body, but some were specific and have names carefully carved onto the stems. For the latter, he searches diligently for the recipients: the jocks who bullied him, the teachers who embarrassed him, even the girl who rejected him. Many students are now outside, but many still remain, held within the same halls in which the young man now walks. On the floors, buffed to a dull shine the night before by janitors, lie classmates and strangers alike, some without heartbeat, and some silently marveling at where the hyacinths landed, trying to form sounds but unable to.
He has more flowers, enough for everyone. Weeks were spent picking the flowers he thought perfect. As he walks he hears sirens and a helicopter in the distance. He always wanted to ride in a helicopter. He knows he does not have much time left, and he throws out as many flowers as he can, half of which are caught by fellow students. He feels no sadness, he wanted to teach his peers a lesson. Words and fists hurt, more than flowers. As he makes a final lap around the interior or a building that was designed like a prison, his attitude changes. He has forgiven those who have wronged him and how sees these hyacinths as gifts only he can give to these people. Yes, it may hurt for a short while, but it also denies future pain from getting a hold of these souls. It is the gift of permanent release from pain, and to go out with the aroma from the heads of these sweet flowers makes the gift sweeter as breath passes from the lips of recipients. He is doing them a kindness. One that was never offered to him.
He concludes his walk in the library. Not a soul left. He liked the library, the paper held between covers contained worlds that used to carry him away from this one. He was a slow reader, but that didn’t bother him because that only prolonged his journey through the ink and paper, and the worlds trapped between the lines. He would like to be written into a story one day, his soul used as ink so that he may live a new life and forget about this one. His fingers lazily glide across ends of books as he strolls gently down the aisle. He breathes deep and his senses are overcome by the perfume of stories written, and stories that have yet to be told. He wants to be a story. He pulled the last flower from his bag, the one he saved for himself. He would like to be a story one day, but he wouldn’t be around to find out.