Death and Rebirth

Goldie trudges down the stairs from his apartment bedroom, stretching and yawning as he makes his way to the kitchen. He flicks on the cheap television in the living room on his way, makes himself some tea and a bowl of cereal, not paying attention to the words drowned out by a boiling kettle. When the sound dies down, however, the gentle clinking of his teaspoon does nothing to mask that familiar name. It's one he has grown to love so dearly, like an old friend. Cloudchatter is on the news. 

He rushes into the living room, breakfast forgotten, and sits so heavily on the couch he almost scalds himself with his tea. The likelihood that this story is a repeat of a previous event or some minor news that briefly mentions the hero's name is high, but, well…

…

Goldie places his cup down carefully as he listens, eyes fixed to the screen. 

This isn't the kind of story he was expecting. 

It takes a long time for the information to settle in his mind, like dust kicked up in a scuffle. Even when the anchors are finished, when they move onto the sports segment- or is it the weather?- he sits unmoving, mouth stuck open just a little bit. When he does move, ever so slowly, it's to reach for the remote to turn the TV off.

It's silent in his apartment. It feels as though even the city itself is holding its breath- how long has he been holding his breath?- the low rumble of traffic uncharacteristically quiet. 

Slowly. So slowly. Stems crawl across his skin, sprouting leaves and budding flowers he doesn't know the names of. 

Small and bright pink with white in their centre. 

Large, black and dark red, sharp petals spiralling outwards. 

Towers of purple, almost like lavender.

Then, some he knows. White lilies with petals splayed out like stars, and holly leaves that bristle and scrape his skin. He does not react. 

The foliage reaches for any space it can find, suffocating the air, churning up fabric and prying wooden floorboards. He does not react.

The plants have never been out of control like this. Maybe when he first discovered his powers, but even then, there was some semblance of purpose. They served a purpose. 

Perhaps these do, too, but Goldie isn't in the business of wondering what. He isn't in the business of wondering anything. 

All at once, the flowers wilt. His home is destroyed. 

From the cracked and splintered floorboards, eating away at the dead flora that litters the ground, new stems curl up and out, sprouting leaves and budding flowers. 

When the red petals of the spider lilies unfurl, he knows what they mean.