Don't Look At Them

"Don't look at them! You'll end up like Harry."

Harry used to be a person that you wanted to be, that everybody wanted to be. Handsome, successful, rich, brilliantly smart and fantastically athletic, it was true when it came to Harry, that old cliché, women wanted him and men wanted to be him.

Then he'd looked in a marigold.

Plucked it and lost himself.

It wasn't just the drinking that'd ruined him. It was the gambling, the anger, the whoring, the occult - everything. All that intelligence, all that charisma, money, fame - what good had it done him? Maybe it would've been better if he had never had any of it. Maybe the fall wouldn't have been so bad if he hadn't climbed up so high...

"Promise me, ok?" my mom begged me, her hand on my arm, holding me in place, holding me back. "You won't look at them?"

"I won't," I promised. When she didn't let go I gently pried her fingers loose and patted her hand. "I promise."

It was a promise easier made then done. You see our house, our town, was on a hill, a hill surrounded by marigold fields. It had long been a local legend that the flowers caused alcoholism, madness, and general failure-ness. It was one that was laughed at, dismissed, ignored - until the fall of Harry. When the Golden Boy turned into the real life portrait of Dorian Grey the residents the town did a double take.

Suddenly mothers started holding their children closer, men started pulling their hats down lower, and traffic started to crawl slower as every traveler chose the road less flowered.

I would've done the same, but like I said, our house was on a hill and it was surrounded by the marigolds. Their vibrant yellow and orange with that occasional dash of red blowing in the warm wind hypnotically, daring you to take a look...

Thankfully, I worked the night shift. The flowers were less alluring under the cover of night, their colors muted, grey-ified, their power subdued. I had traversed many a safe journey past their fields without being tempted in the slightest. They were just flowers after all and there was always plenty going on in my life to occupy my mind, to distract me from obtrusive nature.

Then, I worked overtime.

It was the height of summer, when the night comes later and the morning earlier, and I was on shift alone. I was supposed to be off before sunrise, well before it, but a couple of pipes burst just around 4 am, and the mayhem delayed me.

By the time I'd clocked off and was on my way home, the sun had not only peaked over the horizon, it had risen to a complete burning circle. A bright one. The glorious golden light shone on the marigold fields turning them to fire.

I focused my eyes on the sky, squinting at the blue, keeping my mothers face at the forefront of my mind. "Don't look at them!" her voice looped over and over again as I walked. Don't look at them, don't look at them, don't look, don't...

Don't look at their green stems. Don't look at their papery petals. Don't look at their yolky yellow, their cherry red or their fiery orange. Don't look at them. Don't look at the way that they sway in the delicate morning breeze. Don't look at how some of the orange ones fade ombre style into a ring of bright gold on their tips. Don't look deep into their middle, their flower pupil, their nectar center.

Don't look at them, don't look, don't...

...

"And I never did, not once," the old man jawed proudly to his listener as he rocked back and forth on his porch in his rocking chair. Back - forth. Back - forth. Back - forth.

The slight crunching sound on the forth came from the crushing of the vine that had wrapped itself around the old mans chair. That vine connected to another and another and another. The whole porch was covered, covered in bright yellows and greens, fiery oranges and reds, stems and vines and flower heads all.

The flowers of the field had entirely taken over the whole house.

"I didn't look," the old man shook his head, the bright yellow face of his listener reflected in his glassy eyes. "Not once."

The marigold said nothing and the old man went on rocking, his eyes focused on the marigolds that had taken over his life.

The End.