Blooming Roses sprouted from their hiding spots. Bright splashes of red and pink and orange petals filled the garden and stood out from the dark green trees and bushes. There were Daffodil's as well, bright yellow ones. They were leaning towards the ground. Heavy collections of water droplets filled their centre, their stems not strong enough to hold them up. The Gerbera's were blooming slowly. Their small petals uncurling as the sun filtered over them. The purple Gerbera's didn't fit though, they were such a dark colour that it was hard to see them. They were almost invisible against the dark bushes.
But that was then. And now the Roses have fallen to pieces and lay scattered across the dark and wet lawn. The Daffodil's were barely holding themselves together as the harsh wind knocked them about. The Gerbera's were holding firm, but I didn't know for how much longer. They were struggling to keep themselves up. The harsh splatter of the water knocking, slowly, petal by petal off. There wouldn't be much left of the flowers after this.
Mother would be furious when she returned. She would blame me as she did with everything. There was nothing I could do to protect her precious garden from the harsh storm that had appeared. Her flight would be delayed though, the weather had given me a day or two to come up with a reason, a good enough reason for Mother. I wouldn't though. She would look down her point small nose and over her thin golden framed glass and tell me that I was the worse daughter she had. Out of the five girls she had given birth too I was the most inconvenient and the most useless of them all.
Father perhaps wouldn't be so harsh. He hated Mother's garden as it seemed to keep her occupied all of the time. However, Mother would be in a bad mood and that generally put him in a horrible mood as well. Father's grey hair would become even more grey and his bright blue eyes would dark to a terrible black, they would appear almost soulless.
My sisters would all laugh and flick their perfect blonde hair, and their perfect pink lips would purse they way Mother's bright red ones did. They would all blame me. I was the imperfect child. I was the black sheep of the family and that would never change.
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