Wilting

Content warning: Themes of substance abuse and mental illness.



“Just because a dog doesn’t have a soul, that doesn't mean you get to treat it badly. You still pet it, feed it, and take care of it. Isn’t that right Martin?”

Simon put out his menthol which was only half smoked and then gave his dog a wink. Atop the empty sardine can with all the other butts, the cigarette sat smoldering. A dog so plump next to a man so withered, they made quite a pair. 

 Martin did not respond to Simon’s question. Instead he rolled over and showed the world his white and pink marbled belly. Typically a very charming behavior, but Palace did not eagerly bend down to him. Up until now it had been her standard practice. This did not sit right with Martin who continued to whine over top the rest of the conversation. His wriggling body making the rotting porch planks sag and moan. 

Her grandfather spoke calmly over her and Martin’s squeals. It was impossible for her to stay calm, because it didn’t make any sense. After all this time they had spent together, he had never told her the truth about himself. That he was insane. It was not a harmless joke. Because it was true, everyone loved to kid about how off kilter Simon H. Sainte was. This was no play performance. He was a straight up conspiracy theorist. Like you read about online but rarely encounter in real life. Her own grandpa. 

Just look at his yard, full of broken down motorcycles and school buses. So rusty, things that hadn’t picked up any chicks or children in forty years. The man who would belch in front of a crowd with no shame, who cut in lines, who talked too loud for whatever space he was in. She had assumed it was because he was a grumpy old man, it was part of his aging DNA. He didn’t care for customs or company. It used to be almost cute.

The light was getting in both their visions, and so they shifted in their seats towards the road. The thick lines around his eyes looked like lightning bolts to her then. Scary. 

She extended her pointer finger to the mailman. He was attempting to stuff a stack of junk mail into Simon’s overflowing wooden relic of a box at the end of the driveway. 

“What about him?” 

She asked. 

“No.” 

Simon said. 

“What about Miss Briggs at the bank? You talk about her all the time. Her silly nails.”

“Nope. Not her either.”

“What about my dad, you know, your son? Or me, you know, the human you watched being born eighteen years ago? Your family? What about us? How can you say we aren’t human?” 

“No, and no. Not even you, Palace. Though I could be wrong. But unfortunately, I know I’m right.”

She sat and stewed and sank further into disappointment. She couldn’t flippantly dismiss him. Maybe six months ago, when there was more time, but not now. 

He was her blood, and more than that, he was about the only person she cared about. It was important to get answers, no matter how dumb. 

“Well, what are we then? Lizard people? Zombies? Oh, I know. It's all about robots now. You think we are all robots?”

“No, not robots. Just, not humans. Mostly water with some meat mixed in. Not terribly unlike a human, but not one. There used to be a lot of us. Not anymore. Maybe there are some others some other place, I can't be sure.” 

Palace watched the mail truck disappear over the hills. So that was the problem. The same problem all old people have. Times have changed, people aren’t what they used to be. Kids these days are all brain rotted fools who can’t pay attention for more than two minutes at a time. Yeah, yeah, she had heard it all before. Simon watched too much of the news and didn’t get into town enough. He needed a reminder of the real world. 

Simon let her talk. Only interrupting to point out he didn’t have a television anymore. He had his books. He’d been reading the wrong ones then.  

He lit another cigarette and then a second. One lingered in his lanky fingers, the other in his cracked and swollen lips. 

For the first time, his grand baby started to cough from his secondhand smoke. She was choking on the swirls coming off his spindly body. He told her to man up, that he felt no sympathy. Still, he winked at her and handed her a jug of water from the table. He blew the smoke over his shoulder. Everyone had stopped reminding him that he shouldn’t be doing that, smoking. Let the man spend his time, however long it may be, doing what he feels like. 

“I never realized you had so much hate in your heart. I used to look up to you. You’re the reason I’m even going to Boston next month.” 

Palace twisted some water around in her mouth and spit it off the side of the porch forcefully. 

He coughed now. Not the typical sickly hacks of his, a sound of surprise. Caught off guard. 

“Hate? What I’m talking about, isn’t hate. It’s something else that hurts a lot more than that, I can tell you.”

Their whole visit and the two years before, they had never talked about it. Often the door to the past could open, but Simon refused to comment on his present state. It was plain as day to see how he was doing. It could be measured in loss. Weight, hair, speed, memory, cleanliness. Count it all up over time and it added up to much less than before. 

"I’m doing a bad job explaining myself. It’s been a long day after the clinic and those tests, I’m tired. And I haven’t eaten yet.” 

“You mean you’ve been drinking about a quart of whiskey and you're bad with words anyways.” 

Her arms folded, his holding his bottle and cigarettes. He put the bottle down next to his chair. He had tried to garner sympathy, mentioning the clinic. A new tactic for him. She wasn’t about to budge. Palace didn’t look at him when she spoke. She had never talked to him this way, and the shame was already coming into her cheeks. He let out another little cough. She could see from the corner of her eye his shaking hand, like a tree branch that had long lost all leaves. 

She told him she was sorry and that it would be best if they did get something to eat soon. She could make him something. It had likely been at least two months since someone made him real food. 

“That’s right. Two months ago. You made me that rice with all those little onion type things. Think about that all the time, I do. What are those called again?”

“Shallots. You know what they are.” 

She turned back to face him. He was staring off past the yard junk at something she couldn’t make out on the horizon line. 

“It’s just me now. Figure I’m the last one. I’ve even been told that over and over again. But we can talk about that some other time.” 

‘Some other time’ was code for never and they both knew that well. They had said those words a lot in the last few hours. The weight of the phrase swelled in the air like the rays from the sun beginning to set.  

“Go in there and wash your face. Then you come back out to the kitchen and have a drink with me. I’ll make you something sweeter than this old stuff. And then I’ll show you something. And then, we eat.” 

The contents of the bottle had dwindled. Still, there was enough to last most of the night. Before he could stop her, she grabbed it and took a long swig. Simon watched her, more concerned about her wet eyes than her drinking. She didn’t cough at all this time. 

Inside the cramped bathroom with its downward sloping floor, Palace stood in front of the mirror. The mirror was so riddled with cracks and knicks she could barely get a full view of herself. But she stood on her tiptoes and angled and stared. She stared so long and so hard that her eyes hurt. It felt like they were likely to start twitching as she scraped inside herself. She was looking for some kind of meaning she could take away. 

Like a thin veil floating down off her head and onto the ground, the recognition she had for the person in front of her dropped away. It was frightening, she had never felt this way. Like the thing staring back at her in the mirror had nothing to do with her. That she was somewhere floating outside of it. One of her eyes was bigger than the other. She had never noticed. It wasn’t the distortion of the mirror, it was simply her face. Or the thing in front of her face. Water and meat. Maybe her grandpa had a point. There was no way for her to know if she was human or something else. 

She heard Martin’s nails outside the door, pawing and asking for affection. The floating feeling zapped, she blinked and searched in the gold of her eyes and found it again. 

“There you are.” 

She said, the whiskey still lingering on the air she breathed out. 

When she opened the door, Martin’s sausage body was shaking, and his brown wet eyes frozen in a state of concern. She followed him to the kitchen where she found a disturbing scene.  

From across the room his back faced her. Simon’s head laid on its side on the kitchen table, skinny legs dangling off the chair. Arms slumped in two faint lines in a pile on his lap. There was a hole right in the middle of the back of his t-shirt she hadn’t noticed before. A cluster of wide moles and wiry hair poked through it. 

 At first it startled her, thinking he had passed out or was going to be sick. All the papers and wrappers that had been piled on the table were strewn on the floor. Then he spoke.

“I told you I would show you something.” 

On the surface of the table was nothing besides that same skinny vase he kept. It was incapable of holding more than three flowers. It was always holding one, the same kind he always kept. A drooping yellow and brown thing, clinging to the last bits of life. Its petals fell around the middle, imploding. 

“You need a fresh daisy.” 

Palace said, getting closer to the table, looking at the back of his head. He looked steady onward, his body glued down. 

“It’s not a daisy. It’s much older than any flower around here. It’s the last of its kind. Once this one’s gone, no more. Keep your eye on it.”

Simon’s voice was so low and smooth, he didn’t sound like the man she had grown up with. As he kept his head pressed on the table, his body seemed solid, balanced. He looked larger than he had outside. 

“Quiet Martin.” 

He hissed under his breath. Shockingly, it did convince the mutt to cut his moaning and take some steps back from his owner. 

Palace stood behind her grandfather, watching wilting flower in its vase. The rapidly falling sun outside was now at eye level through the window. Its light spilled further on the table’s surface reaching out to the vase and Simon both. 

It was warm in the room, warmer than it was when she had come in. Or maybe it was the whiskey, but Palace felt clammy under her armpits. She would oblige him for a few more minutes, but things were getting out of hand. He needed something in his stomach to quiet the foolishness in his head. 

He was right though, with the light coming in like that, the flower, even wilted, was a pretty thing. It was good enough to be framed, a painting. 

As a drop fell from the inside of her shirt down her side, the flower observably changed. The petals, like fingers opening from a closed fist, shuddered open and fanned out. The glistening color of them brightened. This kept on until there was no brown left, only golden shades remaining. Like a soldier coming to attention, its stalk straightened and corrected. 

The room felt like it had a cool breeze roll through it, and her grandfather, he was back to shaking. His body a hollow case for the few remnants inside. 

He used all his might to lift himself back to seated and turned to face her. Without another word, he rose and walked to the kitchen and started looking for the rice. Palace stared at the flower. She thought of all the questions that would inevitably be saved for some other time.