Author's note 5-13-19:

Scanning through my old files I realized I had no less than 10 completely finished or almost finished fics. I don't remember why I never published them. Some I didn't think were very good, and still worry about that. And some I just thought irrelevant. Like this one. But with some convincing from my friends I figured that even a bad published fic will bring more joy than an unpublished one. So there will probably be a lot of randomness coming from my 2018 self.

Is this home?

Is this where I should learn to be happy?

11-year-old Seymour Krelborn had never in his life heard such quiet at night. Having grown up in a Home for Boys at night there was always a child snoring or crying. Mice or rats crawling against the floorboards. A grown up shouting in another room. But now there was absolute silence, and it felt eerie.

"This is it," Mr. Mushnik explained earlier that day upon Seymour's arrival.

He pushed open the basement door and ushered Seymour in ahead of him.

It was empty, it was grey, it was cold. Seymour paced down the basement stairs hearing each of the steps screech under his weight, which wasn't very much. In the far corner there was a pile of inventory boxes stacked at different heights, some surpassing his own. Pipes were in clear view and dripping with condensation.

"There's… there's no bed," he observed.

Mr. Mushnik gazed around as if he hadn't considered this.

"Well, you'll be able to buy one soon enough."

Seymour said nothing at this but continued to look around. Where would he sleep in the meantime?

Don't be rude! He told himself.

He forged a smile on his face. "Thank you sir, it sure is… big."

This was true. He'd never had a room to himself.

Mr. Mushnik nodded.

"We open at 9:00 sharp. Is there anything you'd like to unpack?"

Seymour frowned. Everything he had had really belonged to the home. Only the clothes on his back he was allowed to keep. And even then they were too big and had been handed down from the older boys.

"I only have this, sir," he said holding up the manila folder he held clutched to his chest.

The only things that were his. His birth certificate, his mother's death certificate, and a pressed carnation.

"Right. Well… we better get started."

He started up the stairs. Seymour glanced around before finding a stack of boxes waist height. Gently he put down the manila folder and ran his hand across the top lovingly before following up the stairs.

That was this morning. After a day of training and watering and attempting sales, Mr. Mushnik had left him alone. Explaining his apartment was just down the street he had head out at 6:00 closing time, locking the door behind him. Seymour didn't know whether it was to keep thieves out or to keep him in. It really didn't matter. He didn't have anywhere else to go anyway.

It was all too quiet now. Seymour stood there taking in the shop. The lights had been shut off and he could only see through the orange streetlights casting through the window. "Mushnik's flower shop" was cast across the floor as a shadow from the window.

Seymour didn't know what to do. Never in his life had he gone to bed without someone hollering at him to first. It was only 6:00 though. Although exhausted from the days work he felt restless.

Seymour crossed the shop floor and down to the basement that was his bedroom. He paused at the small window at the landing but was too short to see out. He sighed turning to the rest of the room.

Never dreamed

That a home could be dark and cold

I was told

Every day in my childhood

Even when we grow old

"Home will be where the heart is"

The small presence of a smile formed on his lips as he crossed the room to his folder. Seymour ran his finger across the front cover before opening it. He closed his eyes as he turned over the two certificates, almost afraid of what he'd see. When his fingers grasped around the small white envelope containing the pressed carnation he smiled. He held it against his chest and skidded back up the stairs. The shop itself wasn't as lonely as the basement. It had the flowers. He'd never seen flowers like this apart from black and white sketches in a textbook. The only presence he had in the home was the dandelions that sprouted up between the cracks in concrete. They were nothing like these.

Seymour walked over to the counter where an arrangement of yellow daffodils sat proudly in a vase.

"Hi there," he said, "I'm Seymour."

He smiled and continued, "Guess we'll be working together, huh. I'm nervous but I really like flowers."

He glanced at the white envelope still in his hands, "my ma liked flowers too. This was hers. It's all I got." He explained and bit his lip, "she's dead."

This information was new to him, and the wound was fresh. "But you know what, I'm going to become somebody. I don't know how exactly, but I am. I have to... somehow. I'll make her proud of her boy."

He smiled and shook his head.

"You wouldn't happen to know if we sell carnations would you?"

He turned to the daffodil arrangement as if it would respond. After a moment he pulled his elbows off the counter and headed into the back room.

Don't make a mess. Just don't make a mess, he told himself.

It didn't take long before he found carnations, as they were commonly used in arrangements. He bit his lip again and glanced at the white envelope in his hands. He didn't need to open it and was almost afraid to. The flower was almost 12 years old, brown, and falling apart. But it was his flower and he wouldn't have traded it for all the flowers in this shop.

His eyes flashed to the locked front door suddenly feeling shut in.

Is this home?

Am I here for a day or forever?

Shut away

From the world until who knows when

Oh, but then

As my life has been altered once

It can change again

Suddenly he had an idea. His eyes grew wide at the thought. On the wall of the shop hung a small mirror. Short as he was he had to stretch a bit to see himself. Having been fed very little for the past 11 years Seymour was quite small for his age, and he looked much younger than he should have. His face was quite round but his cheeks showed his hunger. He had grey blue eyes, almost vacant of color and ever so slightly magnified by his thick glasses. They didn't belong to him, nothing did. Several years earlier he had fished them out of the garbage can. The home couldn't afford them, or didn't care enough to buy him glasses. He took them off now and blinked several times as his eyes were startled from the change. Reaching to the side Seymour placed his glasses on the counter and turned back to the mirror. He took off his navy blue baseball cap and shook his hand through his hair. It was longer than it should have been. His hair was rather curly and a mess. He'd desperately wished for some grease in the past. Something to look like one of the cooler boys.

Seymour reached behind him and placed his cap next to his glasses. Turning back behind the counter he began to open the drawers. No scissors. A pair of small shears that was no doubt for cutting the flowers was the first thing he found. Long and blunt but would do the job.

Smiling he turned back to the mirror. Between his thumb and forefinger he grabbed a rather long lock just in front of his eyes and held it apart from his head. The home never would pay for haircuts. Suddenly he heard the voice of one of his guardians loud in his ears.

"What, do you think we are made of money?"

But now there was nothing stopping him.

Snip.

It fell to the floor at his feet. He glanced down and smiled at it before turning back to his reflection. He grabbed another, this time imagining it was one of the other boys.

"Whatcha gonna do bout it? Ya gonna cry Krelborn? Little Krelborn's gonna cry?"

Snip.

With each closing of the shears he was freed from something of the past. Something haunting him that he would never return to again.

"Why do you think you're in a home? Your parents didn't want you thats why!"

Snip

"Who would want someone like you anyway?"

Snip

"You are pathetic and weak and small. You'll never amount to anything."

Snip.

The pile at his feet was growing larger but he wasn't finished.

"Too slow Krelborn!"

Snip

"Hell, I could be your dad for all you know!"

Snip

"You're mother was a whore, why else would you exist?"

Snip

"Jesus Krelborn! Can't you do anything right?"

Snip

"Trash! Skid row trash! That's all you are!"

He didn't realize he had started crying but his face was wet. Through his tears he smiled at himself. He passed one hand through his hair, cut as short as he could get with his bulky shears.

This was new. He was new. He was free from the home and everything was going to be different.

Build higher walls around me

Change every lock and key

Nothing lasts

Nothing holds all of me

He glanced around the room for his broom but wasn't able to focus. Reluctantly he grabbed his glasses off the counter and slid them on his nose. Sauntering across the shop he grabbed the broom and went to clean up the mess he made.

The sun was down. The shop was quiet and Seymour was exhausted. He opened the basement door and poked his head down. No bed. And no doubt it was freezing. He closed the door and turned back to the shop. He knew where he was going to sleep. Curling up under the counter, he drew his knees into his chest.

Mr. Mushnik never had to take me in, he reminded himself. But he did, and I need to be grateful.

Laying behind the counter of a cold empty shop clutching a dried flower in an envelope, it's hard to imagine anyone to be grateful. But Seymour was. Because it wasn't were he was before.

Credit to the amazing Alan Menken and Howard Ashman for lyrics from "Home" from Beauty and The Beast and "Proud Of Your Boy" from Aladdin.