Author's Notes: Oh broken glass is not a food, so don't you listen to some dude who says "put cheese on broken glass and make a SAND-AH-WICHH!"
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On the fourth day, the sunflower spirit found dog tags.
He held the glimmering object by its chain, examining the small, thin sheets of metal imprinted with the words, "ALFRED F. JONES" in blocky letters.
The sunflower spirit opened his mouth and summoned his dusty voice. Though he could not speak to the other garden flowers, he could still hear himself.
"All…frreh, deh. Fff. Ja-Joh…neees."
The words tasted stale and wrong upon his lips, but he kept trying until he could utter the name with ease.
The sunflower was excited.
Who was this Alfred F. Jones?
He must have liked gardening. Maybe he could be his keeper of the gardens!
This brought a smile to the spirit's face.
He pushed the dark thoughts out of his mind.
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On the fifth day, the sunflower spirit found a knife.
His stomach twisted as he pulled the knife from the earth, still coated in dry blood.
The spirit wanted to run, but he could not.
The knife stared back at him.
He saw his keeper of the gardens.
Bloody and still.
The sunflower spirit threw the knife as hard as he could. It flew through the air with a whistle before embedding itself in the trunk of the maple tree.
The tree screamed, loud and scared and anguished before again succumbing to the hazy, dead sleep of winter.
The sunflower spirit slept beside the grave of his keeper of the garden.
This time, the dark thoughts would not leave him.
He did not sleep.
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On the sixth day, the sunflower spirit found Alfred F. Jones.
He was young, maybe nineteen summers old.
The boy's hair was the color of sunshine and hope and smiling.
His uniform, which was not like those the sunflower spirit had seen in the streets, was stained dark brown.
It wrapped around the boy's middle like a blanket, dried and flaking.
Dirt smeared his face and skin, detracting from his smooth features.
The spirit gently ran a hand along his face, cataloguing the shape and texture.
He peered into the boy's eyes, large and started.
They were grey.
On the seventh day, the sunflower spirit dug a grave.
He dug it beside his keeper of the gardens.
The spirit carefully laid the body in the hold, just like the humans did.
The grey eyes stared up at him.
He looked away as he pushed dirt over the body.
On the surface, he placed the bullets in the dirt, forming a circle. Inside that, he placed the gun and the dog tags.
Lastly, he gently placed the jacket over the head of the grave.
The sunflower spirit began to cry.
It tasted like rain and sadness and loneliness and he couldn't stop the tears from running down his face.
He screamed for his keeper of the gardens.
He screamed for sunshine.
He screamed for the dead and he screamed for the living.
His tears fell from his cheeks and the soil took them away, as it took everything away.
The sunflower spirit cried until the sky was dark and his throat was cracked, and could only sleep when he could no longer scream his way awake.
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Author's Notes: Oh dear it appears all of my stories tend to take rather dark turns, don't they?
See when I try to write a fun story, it ends up like crack.
If I try to write a serious story, everyone dies the end.
T-T
p.s. and if you couldn't tell, here are the characters
Sunflower Spirit: Ivan Braginsky
Keeper of the Gardens: Yekaterina
Maple Tree Spirit: Matthew Williams (i'm sorry i'm a terrible person)