A Short Story from a Plant’s Perspective


Isabelle Anderson, Staff Writer

**Please be aware of sensitive topics in creative story**

As a plant, all of my time is taken up by observing things going on around me. It’s similar to how humans will watch a movie and be unable to affect anything going on within it. Throughout my experience of just being, I’ve come to the conclusion that I hate humans: they’re far too inconsiderate. Perhaps one would say that my statement is erroneous, and I might actually agree, but based on the few humans I’ve analyzed, I don’t think that my perspective is so far out of reach.

I’ve lived with this couple for a few years and prior to them with one of their friends. I was given to the couple as a gift for their one-year anniversary. Upon moving into the couple’s house, I realized they had a plethora of other plants in their home, all looking perfectly healthy. One healthy couple and their healthy plants. 

The girl was a petite, 5’3”, freckles painted across the bridge of her nose. She was usually dressed in light-colored clothing, blouses and skirts, her soft brunette hair always falling over her shoulders. She dressed the way she acted. Very gentle with her every move and touch, she could be found caressing or running her fingers through the snow colored fur of her Persian doll or cautiously putting away dishes as if to not make any noise. Although she wasn’t much of a talker, whenever words slipped through her lips her voice would sound as if it had a honey core coated with powdered sugar. Her sentences formed plains filled with bunnies, bees, birch trees, and blossoming bellflowers. It seemed as if she was an angel on earth.  

The boy, on the other hand, was broad 6’2’, seen wearing dark clothes, normally a plain black t-shirt and jeans. The majority of his appearance that stood out was the tattoos that dressed the rest of his body, snakes, spiders, and dragons illustrated crawling up and down his arms and neck along with a plethora of symbols and other imagery depicting his life and interests. Despite looking intimidating, he normally came off as sort of childish. When throwing parties in their house with friends, I observed him acting extremely generous in the manner that he was curious about his friends’ interests; he’d always lend a helping hand. From a representational standpoint, he seemed like a gentleman.

How looks can be deceiving.

Appearance seems to be of great importance to humans. Not just physical appearance, but verbal appearance. When noticing that people are paying attention, the boy would act his kindest, the girl would dress herself the prettiest. However, the little things would help one notice the true intentions of some. On his own, the boy would stare at himself in the mirror in a gloating manner, while the girl looked at him through the cracks of the door that separated them with love and admiration. When coming home intoxicated, he’d throw up on the floor and she’d help him back to bed, tuck him in and clean up the floor no matter how difficult it was. No matter how many hurtful the words were that he threw at her, no matter how much he smelled like another girl’s perfume, she’d help him.

And it’s not like she didn’t notice the smell. She just chose to ignore it. In the same way that clay is molded, so did the idea of her boyfriend. Except she was not the one who molded it. It seemed as if his hands were cupped around hers, shaping the clay into however he wanted her to perceive it.  

One late night, after she drank several glasses of wine, she began to talk to me and the other plants. She read a poem she had been working on aloud:

“With the tower of my mind crumbling and catching fire, I gaze upon the beautiful Missile.

Giving it pretty privilege. I sit by idly, letting it destroy everything I worked so hard on only because it convinces me it never has and never will do anything wrong”

It seemed as if she knew, but only subconsciously, that she accepted her unfair treatment. Little actions convinced her she was overreacting such as the time she received a bouquet of flowers from him on Valentine’s Day. From an outsider’s point of view, it was a sweet, whole-hearted, gesture. But if you knew her and listened to her, it seemed as though there was an issue. In the beginning of my time with them, I remember them specifically talking about the topic of flowers on Valentine’s Day. She said, “I don’t want a bouquet of flowers. I couldn’t let you give me something bound to die. Give me a plant to care for. Show me you trust me in nourishing and caring for a living thing. I think that’d be romantic.“ Yet he didn’t take in the information. It’s not like he actually cared. 

Unrequited love. She had fallen in love, not just with the boy, but with everything. It seemed as if her relationship with the boy played out into every aspect of her life, including the one where I was involved. She was sweet, yet she’d overwater me. She would give too much of herself to everybody and everything else. I was overflowing with her love, but she was drained. I became too heavy, she became too thin. Never understanding the pattern that’d soon begin – to give too much of herself and leaving nothing for herself. 

Last night she sat down on the couch after she had a meal of some pills and I soon found her limp. Hours passed on and on. My time to be watered had passed. Was she finally resting and taking care of herself? No, this wasn’t like her. Without her care I begin to worry what will happen to me as I feel my leaves start to wilt. How selfish I must be. I guess you could consider me human.