Author's Note: This was adapted from my old flash fic, Mama and the Flowers, and was featured in the HxH Flower Zine, which is now available for free download.
Warnings: Character Death, Parricide, Domestic Violence
Genthru is always dreaming about the flower garden back home.
Back when he and Mama lived in their manor in the countryside, they would play in the garden every day. She would hide there from Papa, who was prone to raging at her like a wild water buffalo.
To cheer her up, Genthru would make her garlands from fallen blooms to string around her neck or to weave into her hair. She would thank him for his sweetness. She'd fondly call him her Little Flower.
She loved that garden more than anything. Maybe even more than she loved her Little Flower.
She would work her magic on the soil. She'd dig up the dirt and pat it down. Very soon, pretty things would pop out as if from nowhere.
She once said she had a Midas touch of sorts. Instead of gold, everything upon which she laid her hands turned green.
She claimed he'd inherit her green thumb someday. Hearing this made him laugh and clap his hands. There was nothing in the world he wanted more.
"Once I learn your ability, I'll call it Little Flower!" he decided.
Despite his status as the landlord of a broad swath of farmlands, Papa did not share his family's love for all things green.
Whenever he came home, he'd be huffing and puffing from the pressures of overseeing the field crops and bossing around the farmers. He'd prowl around the rooms and hunt for Mama.
He'd push her around as if she was another one of his tenants.
When Genthru wasn't hanging out with Mama, he was playing with Sub and Bara, sons of farmers living nearby. They would hurl pinecones at one another and would pretend they were grenades.
"Boom!" Bara would yell, his longish dark hair flying about his face.
"Ka-blam!" Sub would scream, his pupils just barely visible between puffy eyelids.
"Ka-pow!" Genthru would shout at the top of his lungs.
Not only was Genthru the tallest among his friends, but his family also owned the most expansive estate by far. That was why he insisted on calling the shots and deciding when war games were done for any given day.
As soon as he waved his large palms, he expected Sub and Bara to snap their legs together and salute him.
If they fell in line fast enough, Genthru would nod and would signal for them to keep their mouths shut. He would then pop his head through the arched doorway of his family's manor.
He would listen for his father's voice. If it was not ringing around the hallways or rattling the windows, Genthru would beckon for his friends to hurry inside.
Safe in the kitchen, they would huddle together around a table. They would scarf down rice cakes, still warm, and pour themselves glasses of freshly-squeezed orange juice from a pitcher.
One day, Mama ignored Papa's screaming for far too long. He finally found his wife and child amidst the fragrant flora blooming in the garden.
Cowering behind a flowering tree at the center of the garden, Genthru hoped with all his heart that Papa would not spy and target the luminous lemon yellow of his hair between the branches.
Mama, however, was defenseless. Genthru held his breath as Papa, always a ticking time-bomb, exploded right then.
Papa trampled all over a rosebush Mama favored. He bent down and tore a sizable section of the bush from the earth with both fists. His fingers drew blood from the thorns. He howled and threw the uprooted plant toward her face.
She blocked it with her arm, but bits of soil flecked onto her cheeks.
Both their faces were red by then. Hers was maybe redder.
That night, Mama sent the cooks to their sleeping quarters early. Alone, she banged pots and pans around the kitchen as she prepared dinner for the family.
She took a brief break to pull Genthru aside. She made a great show of pouring tan pellets from a bottle into the brown stew bubbling in the pot. The bottle's label showed a picture of a rat.
She pressed her index finger against her lips and said shh.
Shh, he mimicked.
She warned him not to touch the food on the dining table later, no matter what.
He swallowed and stared at the stew. The meal she'd cooked happened to be his favorite.
At suppertime, Mama served the meal with a flustered smile on her shiny face. She loomed over Papa as he picked apart a chunk of meat and chewed it, as he spooned the salty and sour soup into his smacking mouth.
Before long, his head drooped and fell on top of his half-empty plate. He seemed deep in slumber, but he didn't snore like he usually did.
Mama nudged Genthru. She already had two bags slung over her shoulder.
Soon, they were boarding a bus at the nearest station. They were leaving everything they knew and loved — the farm, the manor, the garden, the few friends Papa permitted them to keep — far behind them.
Genthru despises the metropolis where he and Mama now reside.
Everything in the city is gray — the mid-rise condos, the concrete roads, the sidewalk puddles, Mama's face when she surveys the emptying tin of savings. Her skin drains of color even further whenever she looks out the apartment window and imagines shadows in pursuit of them.
She pries away the phone from Genthru's hands whenever he tries to dial Sub's or Bara's numbers. Apart from Mama, he has nobody to talk to now except his own reflection.
What wouldn't he give to comfort Mama with a wreath of flowers! To build her an evergreen sanctuary amidst this hideous cityscape!
These past few nights, Genthru has been dreaming relentlessly of home. Tonight, he's dreaming of flowers again, but not in the garden this time.
These flowers bloom as fast as lightning. They thunder closer and closer toward his face. He's overwhelmed with the kaleidoscope of wild petals — painted in every color imaginable — morphing endlessly before him.
Genthru wakes to the scent of his favorite jungle geranium.
His pillow feels damp and fluttery, like bird wings dampened by rain. When he sits up, he realizes it's overgrown with fiery geraniums. The tiny petals are stubbornly bursting from the cotton.
A profusion of white blooms — dewy orchids, sweet-scented sampaguita, pearly baby's breath — has overtaken his bed.
It's as if he's awoken in a meadow instead of in the dingy bedroom where he drifted off the night before.
Swinging over the edge of his flowering mattress, he shoves his feet into his slippers. Before his very eyes, his beige flip-flops bloom into giant hibiscuses — one pink and the other red. He giggles as the petals tickle his toes like friendly little forest creatures.
Heart hammering in his chest, he rushes toward the door.
Once his fingers touch the knob, it immediately transforms into a royal blue tulip. The magic spreads throughout the rest of the door in no time. Forget-me-nots explode from the cracked wood.
He wrenches open the door with some difficulty.
There's Mama! She's curled up on the sofa in the living room with a mug of instant coffee.
He hurries toward her. As he lays a hand on the arm of the sofa, rhododendrons and begonias spring free from the faux-leather.
She doesn't seem to notice this wondrous phenomenon. Her brows are furrowed as she stares down at the always depressing headlines emblazoned on the newspaper spread over her lap.
He throws his arms around her and exclaims, "Mama!"
He can't wait to tell her the good news! He's finally inherited her green thumb like she said he would!
Mama cricks her head toward him. Her eyes are so warm they bloom into sunflowers, and a bouquet of stargazers shoots from her smiling mouth.