Takes 10 Seconds Only for the Meat Flower to Bloom

By Kocheng Lin

Under the streetlight, which only sharpened the darkness surrounding us, I wasn’t looking into her eyes. Instead, I was feeling the flower blooming in my mouth. I was thrown into panic and blown into pieces. I was recollecting and recounting my life up to now…

1… 

In grade 9, I was still struggling to turn thoughts into words, not to mention projecting my voice. But one morning, the teacher called up the new transfer student, Carla, with straight dark hair falling to her shoulders, to stand in front of the whole class. She started introducing herself with a coarse voice too deep for a high school girl, but she wielded it confidently like a megaphone. For some reason, she looked perpetually pissed with her dead fish eyes and an “I’m right. You’re wrong” kind of expression. When she was done, she went and sat right next to me, where the only empty seat was. I stared down at my desk while playing with my unruly curls, tugging at the silence but not breaking it. 

“Hey, wanna talk? Cuz it's, like, really boring not having anyone to talk to,” she said.

“Uh… yeah, sure…” I said, finally looking up at her, “So… what music do you like?”

“I like this band called American Football…”

“Oh… I know them…”

“Wait, really?”

“... No… just kidding… I’m just trying to say something… ”

“Well, want me to tell you about them?”

“...Y-Yeah?”

I was so scared the first time I looked into Carla’s eyes because I could see that I was basically a mirror image of her, except I was literally the mirror. I was compressed and lacked depth, and if no one was in front of me, I was no one. My voice was a whisper, blending into the background noise, so Carla would always say, “What? I can’t hear you. Can you speak up please?” She was quite mean, but I was resentful enough to practice speaking louder. 

Ever since, we talked every morning about songs we liked or cool videos we found the previous night, but we also started arguing over petty things all the time, like the pronunciation of words or which animal was the most endangered. Of course, Carla always crushed me.

Still, she was always around. When I didn’t know who to work with in a group project, she tapped my shoulder. When I said I wanted to join the school magazine, she forced me through the door, interrupting their meeting. Right then, I counted 10 seconds, blaming her for the awkward situation at first, and then wanting to say thousands of thank yous to her in my head at last. She pulled me out of my shell. She was my best friend… 

2… 

But one day, after school, Carla and I got into a serious argument in the hallway about—something: She forgot, while I had been thinking about every single breath, phrase, and pause in this conversation ever since:

“I saw online… Apparently, cactus flowers only bloom for one night,” said Carla.

“That’s so short… so short that it’s kind of sad,” I said. 

“I mean, there’s no point in staying, you know, life is just infinite suffering,” she joked, and because her edgy humor was rubbing off on me, I replied, “Well… you can always jump out the window.”

“Right… Oh… shi—I mean, crap.”

I didn’t know why she reacted this way. But then I looked behind and saw our math teacher staring down at us. Carla face-palmed herself, while the teacher said, “Carla… Victoria…” with an emphasis on my name. Naturally, a scolding commenced, but none of the teacher’s words stayed. His tone alone echoed in my ears as we walked home together at sunset.

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?!” I blurted out.

“I just saw him. And I immediately told you.” said Carla, her normal voice still louder than my yelling.

“Oh… so you’re so smart and so fast… ” 

“I didn’t say that! But if you want to know: Sure, I am smarter than you! Because I am sensible enough to not say things like that in front of a teacher!”

“I didn’t know!... Why are you always so mean?!”

“Grow up… So you’re not hurt by literally everything I say.”

I counted 10 seconds, waiting for her to break the silence, for a response that never came. I suppressed the urge to just say “Sorry,” and thought, “11, 12, 13…” 

3… 

How long does it take for this flower to grow? My eyes wandered off the court and landed on a tiny bud of cactus flower right outside the fence. I wondered as I had my first kiss with a yellow-and-blue striped volleyball, currently smashing into my face like an asteroid’s deadly embrace. The worst thing was that it wasn’t even a real dodgeball. Why couldn’t they use a tender, squishy ball that resembled a chubby cat, a dry sponge, or just a normal dodgeball?

My forehead was swelling, and, pinching my nose, I looked at the ground intensely. On the green concrete, there was blood. Drop after drop, they were falling and bouncing slightly back up from the pool of blood. A flower was blooming under my feet. The petals were crimson and still in motion like inkdrops in a puddle of clear water. 

The teacher quickly ran toward me, while I ran away backward, bumping into the fence, my fingers clinging onto the thin, web-like wires. My eyes darted past the teacher’s stunned expression and my classmates’ nonchalant surprise and lackluster confusion. I counted 10 seconds to try to calm down. 

“I’m okay… I’m okay…” I whispered.

Why, even after lying about feeling sick with a few fake coughs sprinkled in between, and finally being allowed to sit on the side, did I still get hit in the face? And by Carla, of all people? Did she do it on purpose…?

But, wait: When the PE teacher came closer and closer to my dribbling nose and dizzy consciousness, it was Carla who said, “I can bring her to the nurse!” 

The hallway at 10 was empty but not completely silent. I could still hear our classmates’ pubescent growls from the basketball court and other students were inciting uproars in the classrooms we were walking past. We went silently into the nurse’s office, and after a bandage, some ice packs, and a pat on the heads, we were sent back out. We looked at the floor and at the wall, just not at each other. Naturally, Carla broke the silence: “You okay?” 

Mustering up a lifetime of courage, I asked, “Did you do it on purpose?”

“Huh? You mean hitting you? No… Why would you EVER think that? It was an accident… but yeah, I’m sorry.”

It was at that point I noticed the redness in her right hand. Suddenly, she pointed at my forehead and started laughing maniacally, almost like she was in pain. 

“What’s so funny?” I asked, trying to not sound angry.

“Your forehead is swelling so big! It looks like a flower’s gonna pop out!”

Looking into her eyes, I could get what she was saying: I did look really funny. I wanted to laugh, too, but I could only stay silent, even though I wanted to say “Sorry.” It wasn’t as if I really needed her to hear it, but I needed to say it. 

Still, 10 seconds felt like an eternity, so I never spoke up… 

4… 

That was the last day of school before summer vacation, grade 10. Afterward, with me focusing on literature and Carla on medicine, our schedules could not have looked more different. We still talked a bunch until graduation, and she probably forgot about all this, but I could never let myself go. 

If we were to meet, say, at a high school reunion—the unofficial, student-led kind—how would we tackle a conversation together? Or would we just tackle each other? I only knew from a former classmate that Carla was not coming. She got an internship at a clinic at the age of 20. What a genius. Meanwhile, I was stuck in my hometown English-tutoring kids for the rest of summer vacation. 

Currently, my brain was empty—not a blank page, but one that was crumpled up then thrown into the trash, and then sent into an incinerator to be turned into ash, finally becoming nothing but air pollutants. 

Without Carla, I was a shadow without an object. If Carla was here, I would feel more confident and could tell the grade schoolers bouncing around like dodgeballs to “Shut up!” 

Everyday, after getting home at 9 PM, I had to continue writing a project proposal for my honors program, but a summer in which all I did was babysitting would leave no room for inspiration, not to mention time to think. This was doubly true because I, fortunately or unfortunately, got a job at a cat cafe, which meant I could get a minimum wage, unlike most writers, but I also had less time to procrastinate. 

I wanted to write a screenplay about—anything: Family, friends, lovers, society at large, etc. But I couldn’t because all I did every day was look at the same English letters arranged in different combinations, each of which supposedly had a nuanced meaning. But did they, really? Was every day not the same, and their outcomes predetermined? Was I destined to be hit in the face by that volleyball disguised as a dodgeball? I sat silently in the dimly-lit, pale-walled staff-only room in the back of the cafe, thinking…  

5… 

Ouch! I bit the inside of my mouth. I squeezed my eyes shut and clenched my fists to let the pain sink in. Then I counted 10 seconds to accept the regret. I had lost interest in the expiring turkey sandwich and started licking the inside of my right cheek, where a meat flower was blooming. If my teeth were to touch the petals even slightly, I would be in immense, miniscule pain. For the next few days, everything ranging from eating to speaking would hurt like hell. Well, at least it was better than a daily, existential dullness.

Exiting the backdoor, I put on my earphones and quickly walked past the sketchy alleyway and onto the empty street, filled with dark corners the streetlight couldn’t reach. I looked at my watch: 9 : 56 PM. It was the night of my high school reunion. Even though it had only been a few years since graduation, I was already reminiscing about my “good old days.” I didn’t have many friends, but I still wanted to go, just to forget about the passage of time. Would they stay until this late? Of course they would. But would they welcome me? 

The night street was illuminated by sparsely erected streetlights, each creating an island of brightness and warmth. When I looked up, I saw moths rotating around an artificial sun. The wind was cold and there were puddles left behind by the afternoon rain. 

The road ahead of me was still unknown. I could not tell if I was just circling around the same block, procrastinating yet proceeding. I could not calm down just by counting 10 seconds anymore, or ever. Even still, I did it anyway. The first second I saw her that night, I knew I had to make this time count, so I stopped looking back…  

6… 

“Oh…” I gasped

“Hi!” said Carla, running closer with open arms.

Maybe this is a look-alike who’s greeting someone standing right behind me. I looked behind and saw absolutely nothing. 

“Victoria!” she said.

Slowly taking out my earphones, I put them back into the charging case, one at a time. Why is she here? Doesn’t she have an internship? What should I say to her now? How can a flower sprout in a drought?

My mind was running at the speed of light, which cast a shadow of doubt. I had no time to think but to speak up immediately. How long has it been? How much time do I have left? 

But I was falling silent: Why do I count up and not down? Because, what am I counting down to? Am I gonna explode into pieces at 0? The scariest thing is that there is never a time limit on speaking up. I can and probably will stay silent forever. That’s why I count up: To see how far I can go. Or so I thought… 

7…

My feet were trembling. My face was hot with my blood rushing and boiling me from the inside. Heart pumping pumping pumping pumping until the brink of explosion. Why am I burning? Some seeds need fire to sprout. I wanted to walk out of my hard shell, but my legs were atrophied. I looked down and discovered something: I have a shadow! I was my own object and not just a mirror. This darkness that surrounded me was not the world collapsing in on me, but a proof that I was a part of it all. I needed wind, water, and waves of warmth from the sunlight to survive and grow.

Her face was right in front of mine. I didn’t need a mirror because she looked exactly like me. I could see myself in her pupils. I wondered if she saw herself in mine. But if we were the same, why did we always fight? Shouldn’t we have agreed on everything? Maybe we were just fighting like sisters, so alike that we kind of hated each other. But we were trying to understand and accept… communicate with and tolerate each other… 

8… 

“Are you not going?... To the reunion?” asked Carla.

“No, I am… I’m just… kinda lost…” I said.

I was glad that I could spend the rest of the night with Carla, that I had a whole night of opportunities to speak up, after all these years. What a relief… 

No.

I had to speak up now. I could not wait for her to speak up first again. I am not a high schooler anymore. I have to grow up. My teeth brushed against the meat flower petals on the inside of my right cheek. It hurts. But I remembered what she told me: I could not be hurt by literally everything she said. It was simply impossible. I had to stand tall and grow.

But: Grow. Grow. Grow. I had thought about this so many times. But how? Exactly what should I say? I was choking on my thoughts. It was all my fault, but I could be better. I had to go deep down in order to bounce back up. Spring has come. So grow!

3… 2… 1… Go!

Why did I not say anything? I know… Just because I know what is right doesn't mean I can do it. Just because I can do it doesn’t mean I actually will. It was just a few words. I know: Cactus flowers only bloom for one night… 

9… 

I would never really speak up. The conversation, boiled down to its most basic parts, would be a string of “Hi, how are you?” and “I’m fine, thank you. Bye.” I would pretend that I was too tired to go to the reunion. I would not look at Carla’s face as I rushed home. I would lie in my apartment, unable to face the truth. I would stand up while still staring at the ground. I would tell myself every day that it was all destined—this lie—like that dodgeball, that was really a volleyball, that hit me in the face.

I could have become a pillar in the literary world with my debut novel. I could have quit my low-paying part-time jobs and dropout of college to pursue writing full time. I could have been the life of the party if I were to run back right then and there and go give Carla a big hug at the reunion. I could have been the first one to speak up outside of the nurse’s office, and that day when we first met. I could have said sorry immediately when we were walking silently, side by side, after our petty little fight. But all these would have been unnatural and unrealistic. Everything was destined to grow then wither. But I could still try. 

I could try so that one day, this meat flower in my mouth could be beautiful… 

10… 

“Wait, what? Sorry, I wasn’t listening. I was thinking about… things,” I said slowly.

“We should go quickly. The reunion’s gonna end soon…” said Carla.

“Oh, by the way, I’m really sorry for… everything… especially that time when I accused you of intentionally throwing a dodgeball at my face, I mean volleyball, at my face. And that time when I said you’re being so mean. I mean you were really mean sometimes, but I think I was in the wrong that time. And I was just channeling my anger onto you.”

“Uh… okay.” she said.

“A-hem… That’s it?” 

“I mean… I had no idea you’re still hung up on that after all these years. We made up right after, didn’t we? We started talking again the next day.”

“Yeah, but I never got to say sorry.”

“So…? I hit you in the face, so we’re even… Also, was this what you’ve been thinking about for the last 10 seconds?”

“Yeah… Wait, It’s only been 10 seconds? 

“Probably. I said hi and you just didn’t respond… How long did you think it was?”

“Haha… hahahah…” I started laughing at myself right now but also at myself back then, outside of the nurse’s office with Carla. 

“What’s so funny?” 

“Ah… Anyway, we’re already late. Let’s go!”

The End.