The chrysanthemums were my favorite. Of all the lovely flowers that grew in my little garden, it was the chrysanthemums that I treasured the most. Maybe it was because it was the first big word I ever learned how to spell, feeling so proud when I recited the letters one by one in front of my mom. Or maybe it was because of the beautiful red petals, each a drop of scarlet. Mushrooms grew in the shade under them. They would be a detriment to myself if anyone ever bothered to ask why, yet I kept them around. Tempting fate, as it were.

I had been gardening all day. Mainly pulling weeds, but also trimming up things here and there. I was preparing to plant some tulips - I had finally gotten my hands on a few bulbs of white tulips, after quite a long search. That’s when my spade hit something. A crackle of glass echoed in my ears, like a vase that had been knocked over by a misbehaving child. I peered down into the pit of black dirt. No matter how I tried I couldn’t make out just what I had hit. I knew grabbing broken glass was dangerous, but I had done much more dangerous things before. My heart dropped as I brought the item up to eye level.

A syringe.

That night had been red. The red of excitement, the pulse of the dancers, a bloody mary. A bloody mary left unattended. A close friend passed out in the corner, a silhouette of red approaching her. She had no chance. Red lipstick smeared, bloody scratches on her thighs, the heat of embarrassment not deserved. That night had been red. The next night was grey. A long time ago, when I had no use for the information, someone told me a morbid little fact. They said that, if one were to inject a shot of air between a person’s toes, they would die without even stirring. The silhouette of red faded into nothing. I dragged it home, a trophy, promised to fill the cracks in the darkness that I had chipped into it with something purely good and light. I threw the syringe in a gas station dumpster. Who would notice, amongst all the dirty needles of those poor homeless drug addicts? Who would remember? Who would know?

It was the same syringe, I was sure. The knot in my gut told me. I had not regretted my actions. I regretted letting myself get caught, letting the eye of the universe watch me. But I will not make another choice I will regret. Cradling the syringe, I placed it back into the hole, like returning a baby to its crib. I piled the dirt back on top of it. I would not be planting my white tulips today. The velvet hemispheres of the blooming chrysanthemums bobbed in the wind, reminding me of all the blood that had not been spilled on that grey night. I smiled a secret smile at them. The chrysanthemums were my favorite.