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They sit there, that little vase of flowers, filled with freshly plucked little blue Forget-Me-Nots, Lilacs and the innocent-looking Daisies. They bask in the rays of the sun that shine through the window of the windowsill they are placed on. Sitting in a half-full translucent vase of water, the flowers overlook the scenery of which they were set upon. A girl lies in bed, asleep, her breathing heavy and slow. Covered in a thick wool blanket, her mind is far gone, into the world of dreams, where she dreams of being awake, and awakens in her dreams.
The room is in silence, except for the small ticking sound coming from the clock that hangs on the wall above her bed and the dripping sound coming from inside the tube that connects the girl to her life and all that she depends on. That vase of flowers, they are a symbol of innocence, of a first love, and they serve as a reminder of the boy who lives at the end of the street.
They were from him. Days pass, the clock ticks. There is a heavy atmosphere in the room. It is strangling the life out of the flowers.
The flowers yearn for the outdoors. They yearn to be free. Their petals are dry; their leaves hang limply from their stems. They try to hang on. When the girl awakes, they want to be there because they want to remind her. It is a rainy day. The room is cold. There is no more sun.
No more ticking. No more breathing. Everything is gone. The flowers have nothing to hold on to. They fall into the hands of nature as they fade, and represent nothing but memories of what once existed.
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