The Houseplant (standard:horror, 1175 words)
Author: Hulsey	Added: Jun 27 2003	Views/Reads: 4222/2436	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
An old woman's bizarre relationship with her houseplant ends in disaster.

Beatrice Ambrose shuffled towards her bedroom windowsill, a green
plastic watering can held in her fragile, ancient hands. She smiled, a 
toothless smile, disguising the anguish that tormented her seventy-five 
year old body. 

“Come on you old thing, there's life in you yet,” she mumbled to the
withered houseplant. 

The liquid food had failed to revive the strange-looking plant, the
tendrils devoid of moisture; the rust-brown leaves littering the pink 
windowsill. The tears flowed down Beatrice's wrinkled face as she tried 
in vain to spark some life into the dying plant. 

The squeak of the bedroom door failed to distract the old woman from her
restorative duties. A small girl tiptoed towards her, her heart 
saddened by what she was witnessing. 

“Nana Beattie, why are you crying?” 

The old woman looked down at the girl, who was wearing her blonde hair
in pigtails. Her turned-up, freckled nose sniffed the air and she 
grimaced at the stench that the plant was giving off. 

“Kirsty, shouldn't you be at school?” 

“Silly. It's Sunday, Nana," she tutted, her eyes swivelling towards the
ceiling. 

“It's my plant Kirsty; it's dying just like me.” 

“Don't say that!” 

“But it's true, my petal.” 

The small girl edged forward and cocked her head to one side, examining
the plant more closely. “What type of plant is it, Nana?” The old woman 
proceeded to water the houseplant. “This my dear, does not have a 
name.” 

“But all plants have names.” 

“Not this one... This plant is like no other.” 

Kirsty stepped back, her mouth agape, and gasped when she saw the
tendrils rise up briefly, before sagging again. “Did you see that?” 

Beatrice wiped her moist eyes with her handkerchief and sat on the bed,
patting the vacant space next to her. “The plant has lost the will to 
live.” 

“But you can always buy another one, Nana.” 

“Make yourself comfortable, Kirsty... You like stories don't you?” 

“Very much,” answered the girl, sucking her thumb and sitting
cross-legged. The ten-year old waited eagerly for her grandmother to 
begin. 

“My mother, your great grandmother, gave me that plant shortly before
she passed away. I must have been about your age, Kirsty... That plant 
my dear, is sixty-five years old, and it appears that we've both 
outstayed our welcome.” 

“But Nana, plants cannot live for that long.” 

“Who says they can't? It appears that we're destined to die together.” 

“Don't speak like that, Nana.” 

Beatrice smiled and hugged her granddaughter. “I'm not afraid to die
little one; it comes to us all in the end.” 

The old woman lay on the bed and closed her eyes, and Kirsty swore that
the plant wilted even more. She bounded down the staircase to raise the 
alarm. 


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