Homeplant

It started with one. Doesn’t it always? “It’s so pretty,” she insisted to her husband. “And it won’t take much work at all.”

He cast a suspicious glance upon the flowers. “They’ll wilt and die. They’re a waste of money.”

The woman shook her head. “Hardly.”

He rolled his eyes and walked away. “Whatever. As long as you take care of it.”

Then there were the birthday gifts. She may have mentioned to some friends that she wouldn’t mind a few succulents to spice up the house--give the couple their millennial quirkiness. The boyfriend looked on disapprovingly, but she kissed him on the cheek and promised it would stop there. He asked her why she couldn’t just get fake plants, but she only shook her head sadly.

Then there were the larger plants. The mini trees, the jungle monstrosities, the flowers a little too big for their own good. They were tucked by couches, beside nightstands, even next to the toilet in the bathroom. She bought a creeping vine, too, and as her plant collection grew, it did too. Her boyfriend refused to mount the hanging plants that came next, so she watched a YouTube video and did it herself. She turned their empty office space into a greenhouse, using a sledgehammer to cave in the walls. She strode through the plaster like it was smoke before her grand entry. Her boyfriend broke up with her. She screamed at him, slammed the door, and changed the locks.

The plants were different now. Venus flytraps began crowding the rooms; flies far and wide knew to avoid her house within a few days. Windows subject to one too many bird smackings or broken by means of flying baseballs from kids playing outside were unceremoniously smashed with a hammer and swept into the trash. Humidifiers and drip irrigation seemed like remnants of ancient human civilization among the jungle of foliage. Sun beams no longer reflected by glass burned her skin and the chill winds froze her at night. Her feet felt cold on the tile, so she replaced the tiles with sodden dirt.

Her family came to visit her, but stayed hardly an hour. They screamed at her to get some help, then threw their bags in the trunk of their car--aka planet killer--and drove right back home. The HOA visited later, and gave her a friendly warning.

Bugs began to crawl into the apartment, slowly but surely finding homes in the dirt piles. She stopped taking showers because god knew the water bills were already too high. She installed skylight after skylight--if only because she would get kicked out if she bashed the ceiling right open. Spiders picked their way through her knotted hair, and she smelled like she was rotting alive. Her eyebrows were unplucked, her legs unshaved, her face bare and muddy. She felt healthy.

It was then that there was a wellness check, called by her ex-boyfriend of all people. The police showed up with their unnaturally blinking lights and stiff uniforms. “You’ll need to come with us,” they kept saying.

She only pouted her lower lip and slammed the door on them; or, rather, she would have slammed the door on them if she hadn’t already taken it off its hinges.

They restrained her wrists with cuffs and stuffed her in the car. Psychiatrists and doctors sat down with her in padded rooms, but could identify nothing wrong with her. It was almost as if she was perfectly sane.

They sent her home the next day, the HOA kicked her out, and she found herself stranded on the cold streets. But, she was comfortable; it felt like home, out here in the elements. She walked and walked, rain or shine. Sleep didn’t come easily among the scarce weeds poking through the cracks in alleyways next to syringes. But she didn’t mind: she was following the stars.

People gave her looks as she walked down the street, as if something was wrong with her, even though nothing was wrong with her at all.

She began to collect change. She didn’t beg for it, not in the slightest. It was just that distracted businessmen tended to let loose coins slip from their pockets unnoticed, where they were collected by the weeds in the sewers. It was always weeds these days: dandelions, morning glory, moss. Anything could be a weed, really. She could be a weed. She was a weed.

The city turned to suburbs, and the suburbs turned to rural. She lay on the top of rocks to bake during the day, and lay under them for shelter at night. She let the wild animals sniff at her and sleep beside her to share their heat. 

Some days, she would stand atop the tallest hill she could find, perfectly still. On those days, she was a tree. Some days, she would hide beneath clusters of rocks, perfectly flat. On those days, she was grass. On all days, she photosynthesized. 

They used to show her food pyramids in her school days, and she used to believe them. But fed off the berries and off of the light and the wind, she knew that the scientists were liars. And the doctors were liars. And the psychiatrists were liars.

And she was happy.

She fumbled around in the pockets of her tattered garments--indiscernible by type. She counted her change between slim fingers. Her boyfriend had always told her to lose weight. Wouldn’t he just be thrilled now?

She walked down the road, warranting stares and the slowing down of passing cars. A gentleman with a razor smile and bright eyes offered her a ride, but she declined; she liked to walk. She walked and walked and walked until she walked right into town and found the nearest home depot.

She wandered through the aisles, eyes unrestrained. She settled on some potted flowers. It was time.

The cashier gave her a strange look. They all did. “You have the money.”

“Yes.”

“Why spend it like this?”

“I want a houseplant. Just one.” Even though she didn’t live in a house, not anymore.

The cashier sighed. “Doesn’t it always start with just one?”

“I suppose.” A smile.

With that, the woman wandered off into the sunset, and made her home among the land of no houses.