Eden

Spring came faster than any of us had anticipated. The snow melted off the sidewalks, the flowers began to bloom, the grass turned green again.

Of course, with the warm weather, it meant that it was almost time for the garden to be planted again. Mother had kept the greenhouse in near-perfect condition when it had been hers, but once it had passed to me, I let it get a bit wild and unruly- after all, don’t we all grow better when we aren’t clipped?

There were three locks on the greenhouse door, each key harder to get than the last, but now that it was spring, I wore all of them around my neck on a thin chain. I had forgotten the weight of them over the fall and winter, but they were quick to remind me of how heavy they were.

Even getting to the greenhouse was quite the process- a mile trail through dense undergrowth and an untamed forest. The trail was barely visible now, but it would be completely worn down by the time the cold season came again.

Once I reached the greenhouse, however, it was simply a matter of unlocking the door and stepping in.

The heat was almost a welcome relief, as it wasn’t quite the warmth of summer outside yet. The aromatic scent of the flowers was soothing, something I had missed during the winter.

Mother had always said there was no point in going to the garden during the winter, and I agreed with her. I let the garden fade during the cold season.

I slipped on gloves, my tall boots, and a mask around my mouth and nose. Sometimes the smell could get overpowering, especially when I was elbow deep in the fertilizer.

The plants were arranged in rows, grown out of jars. Mother had done it this way, and it seemed to work, so I adopted it as well. Mother had always been the one to break tradition concerning the garden.

“Hello, babies,” I said quietly, dropping to my knees to gaze into the first jar. The girl inside was sleeping, a brilliant bush of hydrangeas bursting forth from her chest, right above her heart. Her head rested on her arm, a barrier between her and the layer of human filth on the bottom of the jar. There was no way to clean them without taking the children out, and I couldn’t do that very often. The flowers needed stability.

It hadn’t been but fifteen years ago when it was found that human blood- and only the blood of children- produced the best plants. The science was baffling, and it left experts scratching their heads. It had been so long since there had been a breakthrough with organic materials, rather than the metal technology that was being developed. Dozens of magazines and websites posted about it immediately, and while some of the facts were off, the messages was the same- children could grow flowers from their blood. It had been Mother’s experiment with my sisters and I, taking our blood twice a week for her precious blooms.

I had been the one to start doing this, to take the children and use them to grow the flowers. To plant the seeds directly into their hearts. I had done it first with my sisters, and as a reward, I was given the greenhouse’s keys.

The science was a bit complicated- the cuts had be very precise to avoid killing them outright. But modern medicine was quite amazing, and knocking the children out with a bit of gas made my life much easier. The body, so advanced in this day and age with all of its new upgrades, actually began to heal around the flower stems. Closing up the hole in their chest, while still letting the flowers grow.

The jars were also an invention of my own, large glass pieces I had commissioned. There were holes cut in the tops, and one in the side. The top for the flowers to poke through, to allow them to grow and grow and grow. The one on the side was for air, for food, for water. I took care of my children. I fed them twice a day, left them bottles of water. The children were given back during the winter, and new ones were found during this warm season. I had to work for almost two weeks to find all of them, but oh, had it been worth it.

The oldest were at the front, gradually becoming younger as you went towards the back. The youngest had just been born, a baby no older than a month. His big eyes were open, and as I approached, he turned his head to look at me. I had stolen him right from the hospital. It had been a process, but I needed new blood, and a newborn was truly the best for this type of project. I put my hand through the jar so he could hold it. I’d have to nurse him later, but right now was just a checkup, to make sure they were doing okay.

The others had been easy enough to take, to lure them into my trap. Children are told to beware of strangers, but so often it is the men they are told to avoid, that when I offered to show a few of them a magic trick they didn’t even hesitate. Their parents, being so consumed by the screens in front of their eyes, didn’t even notice until we were long gone. Others I stole from hospitals, from their beds in the nighttime, from those “digital playgrounds”, where they sat around with screens attached to their heads. Those were the easiest to take with me.

I was no barbarian, however,- once their blood stopped working, I’d drive them to the nearest hospital and leave them there, pale and thin and near-bloodless. It was easy enough to get away with, and while somebody had been suspicious of me once, the greenhouse was too hard to find and get into. They all believed the same lie, that I had lost two of the keys years ago and could no longer get in.

Someone was pounding on their jar- I could hear it from where I crouched by the infant.

The boy, maybe eight, was screaming and pounding his fists against the glass, as though he might break it.

“Shh,” I soothed. “Shh. What’s wrong?”

“I want to go home!”

“Not until your daisies bloom, darling. Can you do that for me? Can you help auntie with her flowers?” Tears streamed down his face.

“No. No.” He shook his head.

“Darling boy, I suggest that you help me.”

“No.”

I sighed. I had given him a choice- I had tried. If he didn’t want to listen, that wasn’t my fault. I snipped the daisies above the jar off, and tipped it over. Unscrewed the lid. He tumbled out, the stem of the daisies still protruding from his chest.

I wrinkled my nose. He stunk of urine and feces and vomit.

“I am going to ask you one more time, dear. Do you want to help me?”

And that time, I didn’t give him the chance to respond. I grasped the stem with both hands, bracing a foot on his chest and tugging. Tugging and pulling as he screamed and cried.

The snap of a heart breaking away from its body was satisfying. Almost too satisfying, but it’d been so long since I’d heard it.

I cradled his heart in my hands, his blood staining the floor around me. The heart continued to beat a steady rhythm in my heads for a few moments, and then it too died.

In the other jars, the children stared at me. I placed the heart beside his body on the ground and stood up.

“Please, dears. Help me grow my flowers.”

This time, nobody protested. Nobody pounded on the glass.

I left his body in the center of the floor, but I took the daisies I snipped. They were still beautiful.

I gazed back at the garden, at the children underneath the tables. And then, slowly, I moved my gaze upward, to the flowers growing above, and I smiled.

How I loved my flowers.