Devonne Brown

“You might be able to keep a secret but these flowers can’t,” Imogene told the housekeeper. I need this place spotless before my company comes tomorrow. 

Imogene watered her flowers hoping they’d come back to life. They’d wilted flat, collapsed, maybe to the point that they wouldn’t come back. She had guests coming over and needed them to bounce back. If they didn’t stand up, she’d have to dig them all up and throw them away. That was the price she paid for running away to Vegas in the middle of a heat wave for a week and trusting her son to water her flowers. It never crossed his mind.

Imogene stood outside with the waterhose and bucket. The flowers were a reminder of everything else she’d neglected. Her housekeeper couldn’t fix neglect. She couldn’t even dust properly, and she was unimpressed with her cleaning skills. She wouldn’t call her back. 

Secrets have a way of tearing at you. They build up in your brain like a big boil until they fester and ooze and finally the core snakes out in an avalanche of goo. Imogene was left standing in a puddle of stinking wilted flowers. Secrets have a way of getting you back.

Imogene had a bigger secret she’d kept for years. Rather than let it go and heal, she let it wilt her life, and ruin it like the flowers. It hurt her too bad to think about it, so she tried medicating it every now and then to get it to go away. Medication never worked for very long. 

It had a habit of leaving her doubled over in anxiety on the bathroom floor in the mornings before she got her shit together. Maybe it was just hormones, and one day, she’d finally outgrow it. 

She’d never find out though. She’d never tell. This one, she’d take to her grave.