Flores Para Los Muertos

A short piece from a themed session on the Halloween season... enjoy! 

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The graveyard was literally a stone’s throw away from my house. I had never been afraid of it and would much rather cut through it to get to school unlike those chickens who opted to walk an extra few miles to avoid it. It must be nice to be faced with the idea of death everyday and yet still ignore it, oblivious to the only concept that was guaranteed and assured in life.

It was a regular day, seemingly unremarkable. As always, the deranged cat lady, or so we called her at home, waltzed between the graves. As always, she clutched in her hands a bunch of flowers. As always, she whispered into the void, “Flores. Flores para los muertos,” hoping someone would step forth and relieve her of the flowers for the dead. They were always the same vibrant yellow, vibrant but soft to the eyes. They always stood in stark contrast to her surroundings, worn and dismal and reeking with the stench of death.

I never considered stopping and talking to this woman. If anything, she was the only thing that ever scared me in the graveyard. As always, I pretended not to see her and was about to step off the path to avoid passing her. It was as though she smelled me before she actually saw me. I froze as she turned towards me. A moment passed and I lifted my eyes to meet her chilling gaze. Her eyes were a cold, metallic grey. They seemed to have melted into her sockets and her skin was a sickly yellow.

She held out a lone flower to me.

“Flores… Flores para los muertos.”

Her mouth twisted into a grin that was too big for her face. Not wanting to show my fear, I figured that switching the tough guy act on would put me back in control of my surroundings.

“This is America, lady. We no habla espanol here.”

Her grin widened and her lips parted in mirth and I could count the teeth that remained in her skull. 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6 – 6! Wasn’t that the devil’s number? My mind filled itself with snippets of those conspiracy theory movies that my mother hated so much. Illuminati. Free Masons. Salem Witch Hunts. Satan.

She broke into my thoughts once more as she pushed the same flower towards me.

“Mira. Flores, flores para los muertos.” She sang the last part, her raspy voice echoing around me. I was severely spooked, to say the least. I attempted to walk past her but she was blocking the pathway. My only option was to move her out of the way or walk on someone’s grave; the latter didn’t sound appealing to me and so I pushed her aside. Thin and wispy, she fell onto the grave on the left. Not turning to the damage, I ran as fast as my legs could take me, which wasn’t very fast, as they had turned to jelly.

Her voice trailed after me, or it had come to fill my mind; I was unsure which one of these it was.

“Flores. Flores para los muertos.”

I slowed down to take my breath and realised I had something clasped within my hands. It was a vibrant yellow flower. Vibrant but soft to the eyes.