Lachrymose Primrose

How could I ever forget that fateful day?

The day when my once flourishing primrose.

Wilted in the light,

An umbrella'd of the vase where it once.

Stood so pert and upright.

I washed helplessly as each pedal drifted.

Down in time lapse procession.

Collectively gathering in masses,

Like statuated Pompeian ashes,

Before turning to dust.

And decomposing before my very eyes.

To think, all the love and nurturing that.

I had put into those flowers,

And they just wilt away.

Just like everything else in life.

Everything you fucking take care of

on this fucking planet dies.

To the casual observer, it may seem a bit irrational.

To harbor such emotions for.

A cruel and unyielding.

Natural cycle of life.

When it comes to the simplest joys of life,

It's a harsh reminder.

No matter how much we water.

And feed and nurture and love.

That nothing lasts forever.

Forever.

Is everything okay, Caleb?

What defines okay?

For my wife Elizabeth, okay meant.

Forgetting past traumas and moving on.

However, for me, okay came in intervals.

A drag of my cigarette.

A swig of my whiskey.

For me, okay was only...

Temporary.

What do you want?

Caleb, dinner's ready.

Have you heard me calling for you?

Everything's already

set up in the dining room.

It's getting cold.

Extra gravy?

Please.

You undercooked the carrots, again.

Contrary to what you may

think, I'm sad they're dead.

I'm glad there dead.

What did you just say?

What... did... you... just... say?

What did you just say?

Fuck.

I said... contrary to what you may think,

I'm sad they're dead.

I know how much you cared for them.

Fuck!

Look... what the fuck you made me do now?

Look at it!

I'll go get another

bottle from the kitchen.

These fucking carrots.

Always have to under cook them.

This fucking mess.

They're dead. They're dead.

Caleb, I'm glad they're dead.

They're dead. They're dead.

Caleb, I'm glad they're dead.

I know how much you cared for them.

Caleb, I'm glad they're dead.

Fucking bitch.

Caleb, no!

Caleb, no!

I'm sorry you hurt your hand.

Awe... you didn't like my carrots?

Will you shut up?

Awe... and my gravy was too thick?

You're just a fucking drunk.

Get out of my fucking head.

And a pathetic excuse for a writer.

And even more pathetic excuse for a man!

Shut you're fucking mouth!

Elizabeth, I swear to fucking God!

Ah, shit.

Haven't you had enough?

I have some work to do.

May I be excused?

Who's the pathetic one now?

Exhausted by the hostility of a self-inflicted war.

I slumped beside the heaping mound of primrose.

Which blanketed the floors as infertile compost.

Myself included.

Nightfall, predictably,

and most indolently,

began to varnish in the totemic walls.

to which I had so unwillingly inherited.

from my forefathers.

And it was there, where I laid

a silent observer.

I tried my best to find a comfortable position.

in which to rest.

but...

the relentless crepitation of the blackened petals.

further frenzied my thoughts.

and stifled any attempt at finding solace.

A solace which was as fleeting as my sobriety.

And it was there, in the recess of my minds ether.

where I had come face to face.

with that which haunts me.

Daddy! Daddy!

Daddy! Daddy!

Don't worry, Daddy.

Everything will be okay.

YOU KILLED ME!

Baby girl. Don't.

No. Daddy didn't mean it.

Baby girl... come back to Daddy.

Annie, don't go! Please!

No. Please don't go. Come back.

Why don't you visit me?

I'm scared.

Don't you love me?

Daddy didn't... It wasn't me.

It wasn't...

It wasn't...

It wasn't me!

Caleb!

I'm up!

For the love of fucking God, I'm up.

There's that goddamn noise again.

Caleb!

For the love of God, would you give me

five fucking minutes?

Fuck.

Fuck.

Come on, girl!

Dakota!

Come on.

Let's go outside.

Come on.

God fucking damn it!

Elizabeth.

How many times have I asked you to call

somebody about these branches?

Huh?

How many times?

Hundreds?

They need to go.

One of these days, with one of these old

fucking trees, they're gonna come

crashing right through our fucking house.

Is that what you want?

Huh?

Or is it?

Caleb, we don't have the

money to call somebody.

What do you mean we don't have the money?

What the fuck have you done with the

checks that I've given you?

What checks?

There's no checks.

The fucking checks that I have given you?

Where is the money?

What have you done with the fucking

checks that I've given you?

Caleb, you haven't given me any checks.

Have you talked to your publisher lately?

You know, I hate going

into the fucking city

and dealing with those arrogant,

douche bag,

Manhattanite fucking publishers.

Fucking critiquing my work.

They're fucking suits and

they're critiquing my work!

They don't know what's

inside my fucking head!

How the fuck can they

tell me what to write?

Caleb, how can you be a broker yourself

because you need the money?

Come here, girl. Come here.

Come here.

Daddy have something for you?

Being a good girl?

Did you, ah

did you make homemade bread, too?

Of course.

Have you ever known me

not to make homemade bread

with Sunday's Colcannon?

Smells good.

You know, I'm sorry that I snapped at you earlier.

Jesus, Caleb, look what you've made me do.

Christ.

That was not my fault, Elizabeth.

Is it me or is there something a bit off

about our new neighbor?

Have you noticed that?

I think she seems nice.

Yeah.