The plant was like no other. It was tiny and grey, constantly emitting an ominous presence. But he had kept it anyways. Even though guests would glance at it, too afraid to ask about the plant, too cautious not to hurt his feelings, treating him like a fragile china plate in an earthquake. The plant put a tangled mess of knots in his stomach, but he liked that. It kept him sharp.

He tended to it every day. He always reminded himself to water it or to make sure that it had enough light because apparently those were two things that plants needed to live, even though this plant did not look the least bit alive. No matter how well he tended to its insignificant plant life it never lost the unhealthy, almost nauseating, glow. If he had to classify it as any sort of plant he would put it in the shrub category, it had overgrown roots that fell out of its pot like a wooden water fall. The leaves were all hanging limp like dead bodies at the end of their stems, yet he was still drawn to it like a fly to a spider’s web.

He remembered that strange day he had received the plant. The day had started like any other day. The sky was thick with heavy gray clouds, ready to burst with rain at any moment. The air around him was clingy with humidity. A day dedicated to staying inside. The lack of an air conditioning unit caused beads of sweat to slowly trickle out of his pores as he starred at his artwork, otherwise known as a disappointingly blank canvas. Another one, another failure to conjure a groundbreaking, earth shattering piece of work. The lack of inspiration had nearly driven him to madness. But like a cruel trick of fate, the doorbell had rung.


Slowly, he stood up from his stool and trudged over to open the door. He stuck his head out into the suffocating air of the slow summer, expecting to find some sort of Jehovah’s Witness, but he found no one. There was nothing, except for that strange plant sitting on his welcome mat. He stood there for a minute; he walked out onto his street looking for someone, anyone, but there was no one. “Hello?” he called out. But he got no answer. “Hello?” he screamed out into the thick air. There was no response to his call. No one was there. No one. He let that though ring in his head, there was never any one. He felt the emptiness of his life crash on him, push him down until he couldn’t handle it anymore. With the stress of his failed art career and the crushing heat of the summer and the grasp of loneliness, a new anger boiled with in him. Screaming at the top of his lungs he called out. He was angry that there wasn’t anyone there; he thought that maybe if he was loud enough someone would show up and tell him that everything would be okay. But that didn’t happen. People don’t appear out of thin air like he wanted them to. But apparently plants did. He rushed back to his front porch and grabbed the potted plant and smashed it on the ground. The relief of the destruction was like no other. He let out a heavy sigh and went back inside. His hands were covered in dirt. He walked straight to the blank canvas and began smearing it everywhere, letting his rage move him. When he had no energy left within him he sat down on the floor and admired his work.