Content note: This story contains themes of emotional distress and implied self-harm involving a child

I got down on two skinny knees that morning, with shag carpet pressing into my skin and a musty, chemical type smell in the air. I prayed to God with the faith and desperation only a child could possess. I begged. I pleaded. I cried big, wet tears. I can still remember the way my chest ached from the heaving breaths.

I asked God for one thing, crying out as loudly as I dared in the early morning silence of our house, “please God, oh please, don’t let my daddy’s lawn mower start!”

It was Saturday morning, mid summer, and coincidentally my birthday. My mother had planned a small party for me, not something that happened very often in our lower middle class family. I should’ve been ecstatic, my heart should’ve fluttered straight away, when I heard the news of her budget conscious party planning skills.

Yet there I was, crouched down in the early morning light, praying for what I considered to be a miracle. Our walls were thin, I worried my father would hear me and be furious. He could decide to cancel the whole party on account of my tearful pleading for his rusty lawnmowers demise.

When I heard the front door open and then slide shut, I knew that it was him. I rushed to stand up, brushing away my tears and furiously rubbing at the carpet indents on my knees. I stood and waited for a second, trying to calm my breathing.

I felt the scratchiness of my nightgown against my hips, I had asked for a new one for my birthday. If only they had just gotten it, then the tears wouldn’t have come. The praying would have been unnecessary.

My father’s footsteps grew louder, heavy and audible even on our plush and warm carpet. “Good morning birthday girl!” He opened the door quickly, trying to make a big show of his paper party hat a cheerful attitude. I only got to see his smile for a second before his eyes met mine and it disappeared.

“What’s up, why the tears?” His voice was quieter than it was a few moments ago. The sudden softness made the tears begin to flow again, but I couldn’t possibly reveal their origin to him.

My brain scrambled for a response, flipping through all of the files my newly seven year old self had access to. “Um, I just thought you forgot my birthday, and it made me sad.” He walked over to me, slowly moving onto his knees after placing his hands on my shoulders.

His suntanned and slightly wrinkled forehead was now at my eye level. I noticed how strange it felt to have him have to tilt his head up to meet my eyes. “Listen flower, I know it’s been hard lately with the job switch and the schedule change, but I would never, ever, forget my dandelions birthday.”

His words made me cry harder, but I managed to hold the heavy tears in until he had me safely wrapped in a hug, my face hidden deep in the crook of his neck. Once my tears started to slow, I lifted my face. My eyes then glanced out the window. First they rested on the clouds, noticing the beautiful way the bright orange sun seemed to make them pop forward.

My glance drifted down until it hit the horse pasture across the road. What looked to be hundreds of horses, just grazing, no hurry to their simple action. A pang echoed in my chest when I realized they had no dandelions -no bright pieces of freedom left in their world. Their grass was just that, no bright yellow pops of color to contrast the sharp green. My heart hurt for the horses, trapped in a field that looked vast but wasn’t free. Releasing my father, I pressed my face and hands to the window, the slight chill of the glass only distracting me from my pain for a moment.

I heard him stand up, hesitate for a moment, and then slowly shuffle towards my bedroom door. I knew he felt guilty, he always did when the right words got lost somewhere between his brain and his mouth. I knew how he felt- the need to speak contrasting with the deep fear of not knowing how those same words would be received by those that heard them.

I kept my eyes glued to the field, to the green. My hands found the two latches at the top of the window and easily flicked them to the side, the sound sharp and forbidden, but expected. The glass was heavy, and my sweaty hands struggled to push it up, but I was determined to be closer to the dandelions. After a short struggle I could smell it- the sticky, humid air that surrounded the delicate flower, the calm horses, and the majestic clouds.

My eyes scanned the field, searching for little yellow specks hidden among the vast green. My gaze instead fell upon a large, regal, black horse. Her large, knowing, kind eyes seemed to meet mine. She appeared to be upset too. I wondered for a moment if she somehow understood the dire situation and was trying to offer comfort.

A sharp, metallic, rattling noise assaulted my ears. Suddenly I felt unable to breathe, unable to move, and was acutely aware of my pounding heart trying to escape my chest. I didn’t need to look. I told myself not to, yet my eyes seemed to no longer be interested in the comfort my four legged friend was trying to send from across the road.

My father was sitting on his rusty red lawn mower. Cruising across our uneven backyard- chasing neatness, demanding control. I felt my cheeks burn and my hands ball as I watched him bump along on the disgusting contraption, a relaxed expression plastered across his face. One dandelion, two dandelions, three dandelions just gone, shredded to pieces, ripped from their peaceful homes. Each one chopped down before it could choose where to grow.

I swore under my breath, saying words that I knew I would have to pay for later. My anger pushed its way up, hot and fast. My toes dug deep into the carpet. My hands clinched the window sill. I tried to force my feet to stay. I tried to fight my anger, to push it back down into the ugly, stained carpet. I willed the useless fabric to steal it away from me, to absorb all of my rage.

Unfortunately the carpet wasn’t alive. It couldn’t take the heat from my soul. I was alive though, and I felt the pain of every slice, every chop, every devious rotation of the Snappers blades. I wasn’t able to think anymore, unable to watch the senseless destruction and not act.

My feet brought themselves to my bed. My hands pulled my body up, using the cold, metal headboard as support, until I was standing on my bed, only a measly foot separating me and the opening. I waited until the killer—the blood red Snapper—was just under my window.

For a second, everything stilled.

My hands loosened on the frame.

My chest tightened, like something inside me was trying to stay.

I could still step back.

I could still stay.

But so many of my little flowers were already gone, freedom being ripped out of the ground, being ripped out of me.

I didn’t think.

I didn’t feel.

I just let go.