From where I lay, though perhaps where I was laid would be more accurate, I could look up and see a flower. Maybe it was a nascent appreciation for nature, or maybe it was the concussion, but I was singularly struck by the beauty of that little attempt at a flower.

The flower was curled, not yet expanded to its full beauty, and still it held my mind. There were certainly other things to attend to, other things with difficult to pronounce names and not so charming accents. But the graceful curl of this flower struggling valiantly to come forth and share its beauty with the world inspired me somehow.

Then again, this could be the booze talking. I know I shouldn’t drink, but she was so cute and seemed so amused by how I threw back those shots. And really, when do you not follow body shots with a little kiss? Apparently, when her brother is present would be the answer to that question.

Which brings me back to my present situation, laying in the grass, staring at a flower, with a gun to my head.