The Flower in Need

It’s a beautiful sunny day in Beverly Hills. The neighborhood is peaceful, the air is cool and fresh, and birds are singing blissfully in the lush green trees. It’s a perfect day for a morning jog. I love looking at the immense houses passing me by. Some are simple and traditional while others are bewildering and luxurious with bright new cars parked in front of gorgeous large oak doors. As I jog by I catch sight of a two-story rustic brown house between two modern houses. The house has a large garden full of flowers but all have wilted, the pedals brown and wrinkled at the edges. The house looks untouched, as if abandoned. Ivy covers the walls of the house and grass is beginning to grow between the rocks of the stone walkway that wraps around the house. I stop to see if anyone still lives there. The small mailbox at the front of the house is stuffed with letters and covered with cold cobwebs. I make my way over to the small mailbox and retrieve the letters. The dates on the letters show they have been there for about a year. I should take these inside for the homeowners to see, I thought. As I reach to open the pale white gate, I notice a small note written in delicate handwriting. “Deliveries, please ring doorbell.” From the number of letters in my hand, I assume no one is home so I decide to go around the house and leave them at the back door. I follow the wobbly stone pathway until I reached a dusty brown door. I knock lightly on the door and it creeks open. I stand in shock as the smell of dust and humidity fill my nose. But worst of all, I can smell a hint of something rotten. I don’t know why or how I made it to the second floor of the house. I only remember walking into a large bedroom; the smell of decay almost overwhelming me. I recognize the flowing blond hair of the motionless body and realize it’s Yvette Vickers, former playboy playmate and B-movie actress. Her face is barely visible because her flesh has rotted so much it reveals parts of her skull. Various insects have decomposed her body to show darkened muscle and tissue. The sight is horrifying and nauseating. But as I make my way back to the yard, with a frantic speed, I can’t help but feel sad for her. She was so famous and well-known, yet she has been dead for almost a year and gone unnoticed. I feel angry that no one bothered to see if she was okay. She cared for her flowers, but no one cared about her.