tongue. He kept some Venus Flytraps here too, to catch the bugs that got in. These have always fascinated me, sprawling over the sides of their pots, pairs of leaves fringed like many-fingered hands. The quickness with which their jaws sprang shut always delighted me, and I would spend ages trawling the greenhouse floor for dead bugs to satisfy those shiny green ovals.
Now I walk over to them, still clutching the watering can. They look well, but hungry. All their jaws are stretched wide open, tiny mouths crying silently for food. I share the last of my water between them and sit down. I start to scan the floor for insects to feed them, and I see one just out of reach – but as I try to move, I feel a curious sensation: I have become rooted to the ground. There is no pain, just the knowledge that comes flooding through me: I cannot now move from this spot. It doesn’t worry me; the concentrated warmth is still comforting, and I barely notice that my hands are turning green. I kick off my uncomfortable shoes, and my tights are in tatters so they can be pulled off too. My feet are turning green as well, but this isn’t a problem as I watch my fingers and toes becoming longer and thinner. I’m laughing now, because it feels like being tickled. I lie back and kick my feet in the air, and its funny how much my legs look like plant stems. I hold my hands up to my face and see how they have become like Venus Flytrap leaves; I now have hundreds of tiny thin fingers which rustle as I wiggle them, and I cannot help but giggle when I do this with my toes as well. Looking out though the glass walls I can see that my mother has come back into the garden and is heading towards the greenhouse. I don’t mind because now I’m sure she’ll allow me to stay here and not go the funeral.
I hear her shoes on the compacted earth as she steps inside, calling my name, and I softly reply: “over here, Mother, come and look at me!”
I hear her sigh of frustration, but I can’t see her face as she rounds the corner and sees me, which is annoying because I cannot imagine her expression. I twist myself round to see: her eyes are so wide and her mouth is so round that her head looks like a bowling ball, and this makes me laugh even more. Her eyes roll up as she faints, landing with a thud on the floor. The flytrap leaves open wide like hands to catch her, and in them I see an echo of my father’s face, and he is smiling at me.
Morgaine Davidson recently graduated from the University of Chichester and can be found on Twitter: @Purly_17