A N E XCER P T F ROM
Bloom
S T O RY Miguel Llona
The room is filled with light when I enter. When the
brightness fades, the flowers on the bedside table—its
remaining petals pale pink—are the first to come into view,
followed by the person sleeping on the bed. Even with her
back turned to me, I can tell it's a young girl, no more than
ten years old.
I check the room number again. It's correct—Room
207. My master wants this one delivered to him. So
young, but I'm not here to question him. Just here to do
my job, as always.
My leg bumps against a stool as I tiptoe into the room.
The girl sits up in surprise. She's chubby, her round face
curtained by her long hair. There's a hole where her nose
should be, sucking her eyes and mouth toward it like a drain.
We stare at each other wordlessly, sunlight and the
sounds of rush hour traffic slipping in through the open
window. A petal joins the other fallen ones on the bedside
table. For a moment, I forget what my purpose is, until the
harvester pressed against my chest reminds me.
My master knows I'm not good with kids, so the
instruction was to take her while she's sleeping. He won't
like this. He expects me to be efficient—nothing more,
nothing less. That's what a tool should be, anyway.
“Mommy said she's getting coffee,” the girl says in a
muted voice.
“That's okay,” I say. I reach inside my jacket to pull out
the harvester, but her question makes me loosen my grip.
“Are you her friend?” she says.
“I don't have any,” I say. Such an easy and difficult
thing to say.
Instead of asking why, she merely nods. “Can
you be one for me today?” she says. She has a weary
expression, like looking at a colorless landscape, that you
wouldn't expect from a child.
I look at the door, expecting the mother to come in
at any moment. Or my master to peer in and gruffly
ask what's keeping me from doing the job. His eyes are
always on me anyway, no matter what my assignment
is. I pull the stool towards me.
“Are those yours?” I say, nodding towards the
flowers, drooping stems and all.
“Mommy got them for me,” she says, perking up.
“You should have seen them when they were still pretty.”
“They still are,” I say. Only a few petals remain on
the stem, eager to break free and fall.
“But they're dying,” she says with a giggle.
I fold my arms, unsure of what to say. “Well, were
you happy when you got them?”
“They're just flowers,” she says, leaning against the
headboard. "I don't deserve them anyway."
“Why not?” I say, frowning.
“Flowers are for pretty girls.”
I should be pulling out the harvester now, but my
hands feel glued to my knees. “Not all the time,” I say.
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