No Questions Asked

[victorianflorist]

In front of you is a polished stone dish held delicately in the hands of a white marble statue. Its face is twisted and grotesque in such a way that it's hard for you to discern whether it is in great pain or snarling at you, the viewer. The bowl is tipped slightly towards you, allowing it to rest at an angle.

Around you are three walls, one ahead, in front of which lies the gargoyle-like in form, but not function, statue. While two to your flanks. Glancing behind you, you see your beat-up station wagon sitting in the parking lot of your local 24-hr diner, a place that you had never visited before but your aunt claimed was where she had worked in high school. Such statements often intertwined with the implication that one of your many cousins was conceived there, though your family's faux politeness at their functions forbid the mention of such things at such events.

You take a deep breath, the air is cold, brutally cold. The snot takes to running from your nose instantly, you pull it back with a loud, disgusting snort. Despite the discomfort, you note how clean the air smells, devoid of the heat, smoke, and grease you'd expect so close to the diner, of which you can faintly see the flickering sign behind your vehicle. The air smells only of frozen earth and cold stone, a scent evocative of a cavern you experienced in your youth, a misguided attempt by your mother to entertain you on a visitation she fought so hard to retain and yet did so little with. You hold the memory for a moment, in the way that our minds do before it sinks back into the depths of your mind, like a snapping turtle retreating into the murk. You still know it's there, sharp and volatile, primed to snap.

You hear only the distant buzz of the neon sign far behind you, likely echoing off the barriers to your sides. Its steady hum fades quickly, the waning escape of a mosquito late in a summer evening before you can't hear it anymore.

You glance behind again and the sign is gone, as is your tan station wagon with the rusted rims. In the place of your path lies a new wall, as stoic as the others.

So it is you, the bowl, and the walls.