Flowers Printed on the Page

A/n:

So this is a novel I've been working on for the past few months and while I have a bunch of scattered scenes and chapters written down, I only have 5 that fit neatly into a timeline so here it is!

Chapter 1: Wait, was I just robbed?

Even in active war zones, survivors still somehow find a way to sing and smile, a true testament to human resilience.

Even with lost limbs and senses, there are people who go on to achieve great things, spitting back at the circumstances that should have doomed them.

Even in the strictest, most demoralizing of households, kids still reach the furthest goals set for them, make it into the most prestigious of universities, and are able to flip the power dynamic on their aging parents as the new breadwinner of the family.

I live in the richest country in the world—the one that bombs smaller ones for their land and oil.

I am completely able-bodied and my mental disabilities are inconvenient at worst.

My parents had all but given up on my scores and extracurriculars; as long as I got mostly A’s and no C’s, they didn’t care about sports or clubs or any of that.

Yet why— why is it that I cannot achieve even that?

Why is it— that despite my money, time, and privilege, I still can’t find the will to be useful? Or even, to live?

I think I know the answer.

Some people are simply meant to die.

The cut hurt more than it probably could have— I used to heat the tip of the pocket knife I was currently using to cut through plastic more efficiently—but now that it was slightly crooked, it tore open my flesh in a way that coaxed tears from the corner of my eyes. Not that I looked up to check, I didn't want to—no, I couldn't look the person I was about to kill in the eye, even if she said she wanted to die.

How pathetic, dying because I couldn't handle the first-world hell that was 8th grade. I wasn't even bullied; I had people who called me a friend, and all the free time in the world. I'll never get straight A's, never get into a decent college, just a wasted 14-year investment by my parents.

Maybe because of the blood loss, maybe because of the brooding, I didn't notice another person walking into the bathroom until I heard a voice.

"Oh, sorry, I didn't—the door was unlocked so I—" through my steadily blurring and un-blurring vision, I was able to make out the way the intruder's eyes shifted from me, to my wrist, to the knife, to the running sink, to me again.

Then, his expression changed to something I couldn't quite read as he spoke again, "Go for the throat, it's faster."

What?

Perhaps it was the cold tone of voice, or just the words he spoke, but something stunned me for a split second.

"Excuse me, what?" Instead of getting an answer, I felt my knife being tugged out of my hand and a coarse texture being applied to my still warm and painful wrist. Instinctively, I grabbed at the odd sensation before looking down. It was a wad of paper towels held firmly in place by a larger hand that seemed to disappear when I blinked. Staggering, I turned around to find a man—no, he looked too young for that— a boy in a plain black hoodie with light brown skin holding my knife under running water till it ran clear. If I had wanted to say anything in that moment, I didn't. I didn't even move to stop him as he started out the door. Too disoriented to really make out what was even going on, only vaguely did I remember him stopping at the door, slightly tilting his head back, and asking with a light smirk:

"You wouldn't mind if I kept this right?"

I only stared in silence, pressing the wad of paper towels onto my arm in hopes of stopping the burning pain I was just starting to fully experience as he walked out with the Swiss army knife I got for my birthday just last year.

Wait, was I just robbed?

Chapter 2: Takis and bandages

After the quite unsuccessful attempt, I couldn't bring myself to go back and bleed out again. Whilst musing about just how unreasonably strong human preservation instincts were, I picked out a pack of the cheapest gauze I could find from the drugstore shelves.

"Huh. I'd still have $5 on me after the bandages. Maybe I should get a snack." I breathed to myself, the sound of those wispy words still too loud amongst the mostly empty aisles. Making sure to keep my left hand in my pocket, wrapped in layers of cheap paper towel, I went to the counter and paid with cash.

Now, in the bathroom of the same store I bought the bandages in, I buried the bloody paper towels in the tampon/pad dispenser box to mask the smell of blood and rinsed the dried and flowing blood from my arm, feeling relieved at the cool water on burning skin. Looping the white gauze over that ugly, shredded arm, I tightened it to the point where I lost a bit of feeling in my hand and tucked the knot somewhere comfortable. I didn't know how to wrap bandages, but at least nothing was bleeding through. Stepping out of the pharmacy, I took a deep breath to steel my nerves in case I needed to call instead of text before whipping out my phone to contact a ride.

"Mom"

"come pick me up"

"tutoring ended like"

"10 minutes ago." I texted, trying to sound annoyed, or any normal emotion I was supposed to be at this time.

Yes, this time. The only thing that happened was that my mom was late to picking me up.

"Oh, sorry la I forgot!" I rolled my swollen eyes at that. Somehow, she even manages to text with an accent.

While waiting for the car to arrive, I climbed up onto the short brick wall that held a few peony bushes. Although, since they were out of season, the flowers had long wilted off, and the leaves were following suit. Pacing back and forth, balancing on the wall, the Autumn night blew a cold, crisp wind, scattering the stench of petroleum from my nose and the heat from my face.

The night seemed silent.

I felt at ease.

And the full moon looked so beautiful.

My mom's car pulled in, putting an abrupt end to the quiet, making me realize just how loud the traffic and how bright the lights spilling from various sources really were.

When I got into the car, I kept silent, hoping that it would last the entire ride. However, hope was a fragile thing.

"I saw you got the B in math." She stated, nothing accompanying her voice but the sound of the car on the road. I didn't answer. "You already have a C in Spanish!" I slowed my breathing, as if somehow being quieter would make me nonexistent. "What are you going to do? Answer me, Number two!"

Crap. She addressed me directly, which means I'll have to answer.

My mom calls me "Number two" because I'm her second-born child, as, in China, it was quite common to call your children by the order in which they were born. I don't really think it's proper to do so in English, though—not that I've told her.

"I don't know, study harder?" I mumbled, not really planning on doing that. How would I study harder anyway? I don't even know half of what these classes talk about, nor do I particularly care.

"You always say you'll study harder, but you never improve!" Her voice was rising, yet she sounded tired and disappointed, not mad. That's fine, I could deal with disappointment. I've been nothing but.

"I know, Mom," I reply.

"You know, you can't get any B in high school!" She waved her hand, emphasizing the any. "This is the bare minimum!"

"I know, Mom."

"You know, if we were still in China, your image is based on your grades!" she continued, struggling with the pronunciation of her English words but stubbornly refusing to switch to Mandarin.

"…I know."

"Yeah, you would have jumped off a building already!"

"I—" I didn't know whether or not I should respond to that. Because even if there weren't any sizable rooftops I had access to, I'd still—

No. nothing happened, nothing went wrong.

"Mom, did you forget to turn your headlights on?" I pointed out, noticing how dark the road was right as we pulled onto a small path without any street lamps.

"Oh shiit!" She cursed in a shrill voice, quickly turning it on before we crashed into anything. "Eheh—thanks for reminding me," she laughed in Mandarin. At least now her mood has lightened, and she no longer seems interested in my grades.

Once again thankful for the cover of night, I couldn’t help but grin at how easy it was to distract her. I didn’t even have to ease the conversation towards her own childhood—she loved talking about how badly she had it and how abusive her dad was, even when I was 9 and she had just returned home from his empty funeral, which I was not allowed to attend.

As I stepped into my house, already quite by the late hour, I waited for my mom to disappear into her room to shower before I let out a breath and raised the corners of my lips into a soft smile, blinked any lingering tears out of my eyes, and walked confidently into my room, nodding to my sister—who did not look twice in my direction— on the way in.

Chapter 3: Best hidden in plain sight

That morning started like any other. I barely pulled myself out of bed and reached for the custom hoodie I had draped over my chair before stumbling into the kitchen and inevitably having to sprint to the bus stop because I was late— Not that oversleeping would have stopped me from napping through my first 3 periods. Everything was the same old routine, and I could almost convince myself that nothing bad had happened last night. Unfortunately for me, a smooth sailing trip is usually a short one.

"Hey Cici, is that a bandage on your arm?" My hand froze, spoon suspended in the air in front of my mouth.

Shit.

Even after I had picked out my longest-sleeved hoodie, they still managed to slip through.

"Oh, this?" I turned my eyes up steadily towards the person who asked the question, suddenly aware of the insanely loud lunchroom I've long tuned out. My gaze met a concerned pair of blue-green eyes, Sapphire, my best friend. And the sweetest girl in the world. "I got it while trying to replace the air filter in my house." I laughed, keeping my posture composed and even sliding my sleeve down for her and my other friends at the table to get a better look.

"I think I accidentally stuck my hand in too deep or something, but when I felt some pain in my arm, I immediately pulled it out—" I explained, adding on to the story with the same tone I used when talking about my other careless mistakes. My friends all knew me as the talkative type, especially when I'm around them. Keeping the details of a small accident to myself would alert their senses. I can't have that. "Buuut I guess that was a mistake cause now there's a much larger gash than a band-aid can fix. Heh." I chuckled, pulling my sleeve back down.

"Unfortunate." Sergei, my other friend, replied, stabbing his fork into a soggy school chicken nugget, his tone the same level of dryness as his texts—like if auto reply was a person.

"Oof, well, I hope you didn't get tetanus!" To my other side, the wrinkle of worry in Sapphire's brows disappeared into a more sympathetic look.

Good.

"Welp, even if I did, I probably can't afford a tetanus shot in this economy!" I joked, fully steering the conversation towards the politics that plagued all of our news sources and social media feeds.

Thank god my friends are dumb.

Sweet.

But dumb.

By the time my 6th period ended, I couldn’t even remember what we were talking about.

After school, I took the bus to the library to do my work, wanting to avoid going home for as long as possible. Walking down the somewhat long and colorful aisle (totally not to procrastinate on my projects), a book caught my attention from the corner of my eye. Picking it up, the title read:

The Flowers of Baffoonery

by Osamu Dazai

Dazai, I've heard of him, admittedly because he's a major character in Bungou Stray Dogs, but I've never read his work. Considering his character in the anime, though, it's likely they were all about depression, suicide, hiding behind fake smiles, and other things you'd find at the epitome of teenage angst. Finding nothing better to do and certainly not looking for another excuse to slack off, I took the book back to my desk and opened the first page.

"Welcome to sadness. Population one."

"What an introduction!" I sighed; it was just as defeated and depressing as I thought it would be. The book continued, talking about how he wrote his character—this "Oba Yozo"—from his name to his actions, and how this was nothing but a stroke of bathos from the genius author himself, just in case someone criticized his writing and would be forever stuck waiting for an answer. After all, he was dead by the time his magnum opus hit the shelves

I finished the rest of my homework just before the library closed and crossed into a nearby cafe, buying a cake while I read to kill time. The book in my hand had a red cover with a black humanoid shadow standing still, empty, dead.

How fascinating, despite how much worse of a person Yozo was, I can't help but feel sympathy for him. I can barely relate to him, and I doubt even if I were to go through the hell that is his life that I'd do most of the things he did. Ruin as many lives as he did. Yet somehow I understood that his death was inevitable, and that I would do it too.

What a pathetic excuse of a man.

Chapter 4: She wasn't even an art teacher

I hated my art class.

Which is why you might find it surprising to know I consider myself an artist and have been drawing for like, ever. However, if you were ever an aspiring artist and ever went to art class with a self-absorbed, self-righteous fossil for a teacher, it quickly sucks all life and fun out of the craft.

"No no, Cecilia, you can't draw that." Mrs. Weinberg shook her head as she pushed my draft back to me with a wrinkled frown. "It's too…controversial for school."

"But ma'am, you said we were allowed to pick any civil rights subject," I protested, trying to keep my voice at a reasonable volume for 8 am. "Women and girls are sexually targeted and assaulted every day! Oftentimes, by the people they trust most, how is women's rights controversial in any way?"

"Let me rephrase," the former English teacher stepped towards me, causing me to take a step back instinctively, "this topic is too dark for school, okay?" She stepped towards me again, pointing at the sketched silhouette of a girl covering her body as hands grabbed her limbs and scrutinizing eyes stared scorning judgment down at her defensive position.

"But Mrs. Weinberg!—" I started before she cut me off.

"Cecilia, if you refuse to comply with the guidelines, you will fail this assignment. You're a good enough artist; you can paint something else," she stated, clearly wanting to finalize the decision.

Yet for some ungodly reason, I decided to keep pressing forward.

"Where?" I demanded, raising my voice.

"What?" she stopped in her tracks, slowly turning around, her thick glasses catching the dim morning light from the windows, as I suddenly felt every set of eyes in the room trained on me like 40 sniper scopes.

"Where on the rubric does it state that I cannot cover the very real problem of violence against women, a very real civil rights issue, in my project?" I continued, trying my best not to stutter, swallowing to keep my mouth from drying up, praying that my face didn't show how my pulse had quickened 5x in the last 3 seconds.

"Are you arguing with me?" she asked in disbelief.

"No, I'm just asking a question," I defended. "Where on the rubric does it state I can't cover this topic? If you show me, I'll sit down."

The teacher chuckled, though it didn't reach her eyes. "You know I didn't expect this level of disrespect from you, Cecilia." She fixed her glasses with an unsettling smile on her face.

From the corner of my eye, I saw a few phones being pulled out from pockets and felt a cold sweat run down my neck.

Gods, what have I gotten myself into?

"If you do not change your topic and get back in your seat right now, I'll have to send you to detention, and since you're a good student, I really would like to avoid that." she continued, her tone so artificially cheerful yet threatening I was starting to wonder if she secretly enjoyed scaring kids like this.

I felt the draft crumple in my fist, not noticing how tightly I had clenched it until the paper was reduced to nothing but a smudged wad of graphite and sweat. How I so badly wanted to retaliate, to curse her out, to scream at her for having the audacity to use authority as a means of argument, to give those kids behind me the show they were hoping to record.

However, I knew how to count my losses.

"Dude, I thought you were gonna crash out on her over there." The kid who sat waiting next to my seat whispered to me as I sat back down at my seat, their wide eyes still trained on me.

"Well, can't win against a dumbass with too much power." I huffed, trying to pretend my heart wasn't still beating fast enough to charge a small battery.

"Bro, shut up before you get into trouble," they shushed as our teacher made her way over to our table, dropping off last week's assignments in a single swoop without even stopping, the watercolor paper only able to stay on the table due to its higher density.

I looked at the rubric attached to my painting: 10/10 with all boxes checked. Even though this was possibly the easiest class of all time with the worst teacher I couldn't care to impress, I still felt a sense of pride at the grade, turning to show off to my friend, whom I was sure got a similar grade.

"Yo—Jordan, what'd you get?" I asked, peaking over their shoulder, trying to get a glimpse of their rubric through the thick, frizzy bush that was their hair.

"An…85…" Jordan frowned, their brows furrowing together at the page.

"What?" I asked in disbelief, "That can't be right--this is studio art--lemme see." I pulled the price of paper towards my side of the table, whilst my companion also slid their painting over.

Looking over the checks and circles, I felt my just-cooled-down blood increase in pressure after every line.

Lineart: 3 Points ——> 3/3

Colors: 3 Points ———>2/3 Julia, The minimum requirement was to use 3 colors, white is not a color

Topic: 2 points ———> 2/2

Neatness: 2 points ——> 1.5/2 Julia, although the neatness of your work was acceptable, I know from your pencil drawings you can do better.

I put down the paper before I could crumple it, sliding it back to Jordan and picking up their painting. It showed a chibi-like character of an angel in white robes with a golden halo on a blue background. While the coloring was neat enough for me to tell what it was, it was clear to see that too much water was used when coloring in some parts, causing the paints to bleed into each other as well as the sharpied lineart, causing some parts to look more green than blue or gold. However, these mistakes were also common with beginner watercolor users, especially since Mrs. Weinberg never actually bothered to teach any of us how to properly use watercolor, a medium known as "the most unforgiving of paints." But this nitpicking aside, what really angered me the most was that last comment: I know from your pencil drawings you can do better.

Who.

The.

Fuck—

Was she to compare goddamn watercolor to PENCIL of all things? At that point, she might as well compare punnet squares to brain surgery, or walking to the kitchen for a midnight snack to running a marathon!

"Jordan, come with me, we're fixing your grade." I got up abruptly, startling the kid in question.

"W—huh?" They glanced up at me, taking the headphone off one ear.

"I said, we're fixing your grade— she has no right to review it like that!" I propped my hands up on my hips, looking down at my friend expectantly.

"Um, didn't you just say there's no winning against an idiot?" Jordan asked in a choked tone, still not getting up.

"Yeah, well, this is different! It's your grade we're talking about! This is unfair grading!" I argued, jabbing my finger at the rubric.

"A grade I'm completely fine with if that means you aren't marching your ass straight to the edge of the detention cliff!" they retaliated, frantically pushing up from their seat.

"But don't you think it's unfair? Don't you want me to help you?" I asked, not understanding why they weren't letting me help them sort this grade out. It's not like I would be pinning any blame on them; if anything goes wrong, I'll take the fall, so no one important gets hurt. Not like I'll live long enough to need a spotless record anyway.

"I…don't think you actually want to help me…" Jordan started, eyes cast downwards at their hands, which seemed to reach towards mine before quickly pulling back and clasping together, black polished nails picking at caramel colored skin.

"What do you mean?" I chuckled uncertainly, "Of course I want to help you, you're my friend!"

“Well, you’re not helping me, Cecelia.” they replied in a quiet yet stern tone, “You’re drawing attention to both of us. I don’t care if you like the feeling of standing up like some white knight for what you perceive as a noble cause, but keep me out of it.”

I blinked at that their words...was I... being selfish? Was I drawing unwanted attention to them?

"…Jordan, I didn’t think—" I started, only for my friend to cut me off.

“No, no you don’t.”

Before I could respond, the bell rang, signaling the end of class.

Chapter 5: Matcha latte

After who knows how long, I finally stopped squinting at the pointlessly long wall of text in the article I was supposed to research and leaned back in my chair with a sigh.

What the hell am I supposed to be looking for? I thought, staring at the tall white ceiling, letting the pale lights spin and stretch their rays as if they were dancing to a quick beat, and when I closed my eyes, I still saw them imprinted as dark, purple-ish spots in my vision.

I opened my text messages to see if Jordan responded to the apology I sent them about an hour ago—no response.

Maybe I should just forget about them.

Looking back at the passage I had read and re-read for a good 10 minutes now—even though it was only a bit over 1000 words— scrutinizing it as if I were to glare intensely enough, the page would cough up the evidence I was looking for.

"This is what I get for choosing such a topic…" I groaned under my breath, burying my face in my hands. The English project that was currently the bane of my existence happened to be yet another assignment focusing on social problems. This time, we were meant to analyze and interpret the play "Twelve Angry Men", connect it to modern-day issues, and write our own plays based on the social commentary we were focusing on. So, of course, that begs the question of why the fuck I picked teenage mental health as my topic.

Oh sure! I may have slit my wrist in a C2 bathroom, but I'm not about to cite that as a fucking source now—am I?

Switching the tab back to the mostly empty outline, save for one box labeled:

Evidence—Logos

According to the CDC in 2023, for teens age 12-19:

• suicide is the 3rd leading cause of death
• 19.6% of teens die of suicide
• 2nd leading cause of death in females
• males have higher rates by 3% but are killed more by homicide and accidents

additional notes:

leading cause of death for AAAP(Asian American and Pacific Islanders) of both sexes at 35.4%

The rest of the boxes were meant for Claim, Pathos, Ethos, Counterargument, and Conclusion. Clicking on the 'Claim' box, I typed:

'Teen suicide is a bigger problem than people think it is.'

I paused, read the line, frowned, and deleted it.

'Teen suicide is an overlooked issue in America.'

No good.

'Adults don't know the full extent of what teenagers go through—'

It doesn't feel right.

'Adults don't know what we go through.'

No.

'Teen suicide is preventable, you just don't care.'

Stop.

'Why Awareness isn't enough.'

Shut up.

'STOP TELLING ME I'M NOT ALONE WHEN YOU DON'T KNOW ANYTHING!'

I decided to take a break and logged off from the computer. Walking out of the library and into the frigid winter air, I pulled my jacket tighter around my frame, but refused to zip it—I wouldn't be out here for long anyway— and with a brisk pace started towards the matcha cafe right across the library, hoping to get a warm drink.

I don’t know why, but it’s always my favorite subjects that give out the most convoluted homework requirements. Maybe it’s because creativity simply can’t be taught in a classroom, or maybe it’s because art and English teachers signed up for an easy class where they could grade a student based on how much they liked them, and by god they were going to do that—the withered, tenured freaks—but either way it always ends up with me being stuck doing an assignment that was boring at best and insulting at worse.

Perhaps because I was in a hurry to get into the small cafe before the cold got to me, perhaps it was due to the darkness limiting my vision, or maybe it was the other party not watching where he was going, but one way or another, I ended up crashing into a man walking out of the store, spilling one of the drinks he had in hand.

"Oh my god— I'm so sorry!" I apologized frantically, almost not registering the scalding hot liquid that ended up splashing on my face due to the fact that the rest of it was all over the navy(and now green-stained) jacket of some random stranger.

"Dude! What the— that was for—" the man started before sighing tiredly, "never mind, I'm fine."

He was probably lying.

"I'm so sorry, I'll pay for the drink! I uh— wait…" I looked up at the man I bumped into and trailed off at the sight of his face.

"It's you." I stated, instantly recognizing his face.

The boy blinked.

"It's me." he echoed with just the slightest hint of a smile in his voice.

"You stole my knife." I deadpanned, now standing straight up, only to find he was still a bit taller than me.

"That's an odd way to say I saved your life." he responded casually, not missing a beat.

"You told me to go for the throat."

"You're alive, aren't you?"

"…"

Before I could think of a comeback, a woman walked up to us. "Jacob Arnav! " What's taking you so long?" she demanded before noticing me, "Who is this?"

"She spilled your latte on me." the boy—Jacob— responded, matter-of-factly.

"I was gonna pay him back!" I blurted out before she could say anything else.

The woman looked at me, then at Jacob, then back at me again, then sighed, "As if this date couldn't get any worse— It's fine, you don't gotta pay anything, I'm sure it was an accident."

"No! No, I insist, I'm sure I've got the money, let me pay!" I reiterated, taking out my wallet.

"Yeah, Hannah, let her pay!" Jacob repeated, earning a glare from his date, to which he responded, "What? I'm the one who bought it."

"How much do I owe you?" I asked, taking out a few bills.

"Uh... $20?" the boy replied, ignoring the way Hannah was begging him to just drop it.

"That's bullshit." I deadpanned upon hearing the price, "No latte costs that much money."

"I had a lot of toppings— hey!" Jacob was cut off by his partner snatching the receipt out of his hand, along with the remaining cup of matcha latte.

"$6.50, you owe him $6.50," she read out, and after watching me hand the amount to her grumbling date, added, "By the way, it's not a very good idea to carry so much cash on you all at once, how old are you even?"

When I responded with 13, Hannah got an angry look on her face and dragged Jacob off by the ear, her fiery red hair flowing in the air as she scolded him for “tryna scam middle-schoolers” as he frantically tried to tell her he had yet to buy another drink for himself, which made me wonder how she would have responded to the other thing he did, which I'm pretty sure she didn't know about.

Jacob Arnav... I thought, walking into the shop for my own drink, now he’s an odd one, isn’t he?