It was the year 1989, and Tom Adams was celebrating his 19th birthday, well it wasn't much of a celebration alone in his 2 room flat a glass of grapefruit juice in his right hand, sitting on a very old rickety arm chair that could fall apart at any moment. In his left hand he held a letter from the prime minister himself asking for his assistance. The letter was Hand Written in pitch black ink without a smudge or mark anywhere, the paper was tinged slightly pink and had the prime ministers coat of arms inscribed in the middle.
"Bloody politics," he said out loud screwing the letter up with no regard to the beauty of it.
He got up and drained his half finished glass in one then picked up his beret and great coat, strapped his two belts on, one on his left leg and one around his waist. Then he hooked his brown leather holster onto the inside of his great coat and put his pistol in it, he liked to keep it close to his heart. Then he strapped three small bottles of blessed water onto his waist belt and another bottle of grapefruit juice (Tom didn't drink alcohol, it dulls the brain). Then, went on the five knives onto his leg belt and a bulb of garlic. He then walked over to a chest of draws and opened the bottom draw in which was a box of small proportions, it was black with one single painted rose on the top and the stem creeping around the sides and bottom. Inside the box was a crucifix, he stood and admired it's beauty even though he saw it every day of his life, it was mainly white in colour but with a line of red and green stones down the centre, they were only semi-precious stones but it was topped with a huge dark red ruby in the centre of the cross. He picked it up and stowed it away in his great coat, then he closed the lid of the box and closed the draw.
He stepped outside and breathed in the fresh air, when his lungs where at their full capacity he held his breath and waited, then when he could stand it no more he let it all out slowly, he did this every time he stepped outside, he didn't really know why he just did it was something to do with savouring what could be his last day out.
He started walking fairly slowly, there was no reason to rush, he took his normal 15-minute walk along the river bow to his favourite florist. The shop was green underneath the countless bunches of flowers and hanging baskets that lined the wall, there where chrysanthemums, roses, daffodils, lavender, and all means of other flowers.
The inside of the shop was even more colourful than outside the counter was lined with lavender and even the till had some roses on it. A little old man came out of the back room and stood at the counter, he had an old weather beaten face, but it was not withered it was full of life and Tom could tell that under the old skin was the mind of a young free child, he could tell that the man was longing for the chance to be able to run around and play and go to parties and it was destroying him. Tom's only strong belief was that all misery came from desire.
"How may I help you Tom?" started the old man
"I would like to purchase my usual please Tony,"
"Now," he paused for thought "that's ten chrysanthemums isn't it? Five reds and five pinks?" He struggled to remember Tom's weekly purchase.
"Come on Tony, he orders that every day," An old lady walked into the room, she punched Tony lightly on the shoulder, she was smiling, she always smiled Tom Couldn't think of a time when she wasn't smiling.
"Don't worry Janet I don't mind," Tom directed his speech to the old lady. Tony rapped the flowers in the usual plain brown paper, the paper reminded him of the paper in the letter from the prime minister and decided he preferred the brown paper, Tom liked things simple.
"Thank you," Tom said sub-consciously as he took the flowers
"You take care of yourself now, don't go getting yourself killed, or eaten." The comment from the old lady stole Tom away from his trail of thought, he looked and saw Janet grinning mischievously.
"Don't you worry about me I'll be fine." He waved and left the florists.
It was another 10-minute walk to the train station where he caught the 10:30 train to the centre of town. It wasn't a particularly inspiring trip he sat in his usual seat closest to the doors, there was a baby and it's mother, Tom frowned the mother didn't look much older than 17, it made him think of the saying 'young love' more like 'young sex' he thought. He rested his head on the rest and looked up at the long strips of lights shining down their harsh electric white glow onto the seats and the small number of passengers, achieving little in the train that was already lit by sunlight. The baby started to cry and Tom heard the desperate but futile efforts of the (obviously out of her depth) mother to try and stop it. Tom glanced over to look at them and for a moment he saw a flicker of desperate murderous intent in her eyes, and then the look of surprise and disgust at herself about the thoughts that had obviously just run through her head.
The train came to a screeching halt and the doors opened, Tom waited for the mind murdering mother to wheel the pram off the train, she muttered a hardly audible sorry to him but he couldn't be sure whether it was just a cough. He stepped down off the train and immediately noticed the tacky fake flower display, curled around the pillars holding up the rain cover over the platform, he noticed them every time he walked off the train and he loathed them, their fabric petals with either dull muddy colours or florescent horrible colours. He had meant to put in a complaint but had never got round to it. He glanced up into the sky it was a beautiful "sky blue" colour with out a cloud in sight, he frowned, it was going to be a dark night.
Tom walked heavily down the platform stairs and out of the station, he ran his hand along the stations outer wall it was rough and grimy, with age it had engravings carved into it by imbeciles that thought a passer by would be interested if "Jonny waz ere" or that "Kev loves Jan". Tom looked at the floor; it was dotted with the usual spots of chewing gum (probably left there by the same culprits as the wall carvings), he looked up to the heavens a, flock of birds formed a V in the sky and the sun shone behind a light cloud cover. He walked briskly along the lane away from the hustle and bustle that was caused by the stations tight schedule, he took the flowers out from under his coat and straightened them out, he took a sniff, to catch the waft of sweet smelling fragrance that was being whisked away by the early morning breeze, perfect, chrysanthemums had always been Toms favourite flowers, it was the fact that they are small and yet beautiful in their own way, not like roses, he always thought that they were always bustling for attention, if flowers were people roses would be the bullies and chrysanthemums would be the strong, smart and silent type, that would always get verbal abuse but had the aura about it that always said, "get the fuck away from me". He stopped at a small white painted gate at the end of a small white painted fence, the rusted hinge creaked as Tom pushed it open, he felt under his hand the flaking paint as it crumbled and broke off under the pressure. On the other side of the flaky white fence was a small, pretty but solemn graveyard, Tom headed towards a small Rowan tree, or rather to the grave underneath it, he knelt down, and read (for the umpteenth time), the caption on the tombstone, the words carved into the stone were so beaten up by time that it was hard to read but Tom new by heart it said:
R.I.P
Beatrix Danford Adams
"To be at war with your inner demons,
Is a terrible thing"
He stood there, still as the stone gargoyle that fell on top of his mother. Slowly he straightened his legs not taking his eyes off the old stone. He could still hardly believe that his mother was dead. He stood there staring vacantly at the stone for more than 5 minutes, then he tore his eyes off the tomb stone and placed the Chrysanthemums down onto the grave, red ones on the left and pink ones on the right, and murmured.
"Same again mum, but they'll do."
He trudged back through the graveyard, his heart heavy in his chest, he opened the little white gate and set off down the road.