They kept sending her flowers. She couldn’t bring herself to throw them away, these symbols of kindness, so they coated every surface, turning her house into a jungle, a rising and falling mass of green and white and pink.
Each morning, she walked amongst them, the slowly dying flowers looking at her like eyes, staring, staring, staring. Their crisp leaves fell to the floor, littering the tile like a fresh snowfall.
She collapsed, surrounded by a sea of petals.
“I did it,” she whispered. “I killed him.”
When the police arrived hours later, she lay there still.
Word Count: 97
This is for Friday Fictioneers. Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for running the challenge and Dale Rogerson for providing the prompt photo!