Serval and Sheep (Chapter 32)
Priya tends to the school garden.
Four-leaf clovers bring good luck, or so the old superstition goes. If you just so happen to find one, that in of itself is proof of your fortune, given how rare they are. A 1 in 10,000 chance.
But four leaf clovers are only rare because they're the result of a genetic mutation. Clovers are supposed to have three leaves, not four. The extra leaf is a freak malformation. For the clover, isn't that horribly unlucky?
Well, maybe not. After all, it was born into a world that loves four-leaf clovers. Anyone who sees this special shamrock will admire its mutation. There are even some who dream of planting fields and fields of four-leaf clovers, if it is even possible to.
So even if the extra leaf is more yellow than the rest, or smaller, or wrinkly, it's still a blessing to be a four-leaf clover.
Priya opens her eyes, and notices the classroom is empty. Her brows instinctively furrow with worry: what time is it? Judging by the deep golden rays of light that stain the desks and floor, it must be late afternoon. Sixth period has been over for a while.
She stares blankly at the blackboard, now wiped clean of whatever chalky notes that had been jotted down on it, leaving only ghostly waves of white crashing into one another on the sea of dark green.
Her classmates could have woken her up. Maybe they felt bad for her, and wanted to let her rest. But really...
Slowly, she packs up her belongings (a notebook with incomplete data, and a pink pencil case) and adjusts her nasal cannulas, breathing in the stronger flow of oxygen. While she still feels the tingles of sleepiness in her eyelids and neck, she shakes them off. After all, she must take care of the plants.
The tigress rambles through the long halls of the main building (the Noah complex), and slowly descends the staircases. It's important for her to only exert force when she absolutely has to, so she makes sure to pace herself. Giving a parting wave to the receptionist Ms. Cally, she heads towards the exit. In the crisp air, she flinches at the sudden gust of wind that ruffles up the fur on her cheeks. Perhaps she should've brought a scarf today.
With her typical lanky, relaxed pace, she makes her way to the area behind the Noah complex. Sandwiched between two small clutter of pine trees is the garden. Her garden. She admires the colorful splotches of flowers that stand out amongst the dull greens and browns.
Funny things, flowers. Apart from some medicinal outliers, most flowers serve no purpose. Or rather, they merely serve to attract, to decorate, to entice. These silly little plants have somehow figured out the fatal hamartia of all living creatures: the attraction to beauty.
Flowers exploit and are exploited. People have invented an entire language around flowers and what they symbolize, but that's all worthless, isn't it? Flowers certainly don't have a say in what they "mean", and really, they don't "mean" anything at all. They're just plant tissue, a reproductive organ.
But they're so pretty.
Priya meanders to the moss-covered garden faucet, where her trusty watering can awaits his daily drink. She must always take extra care in opening the tap, as her large hands could easily snap the faucet off. A sick tiger is still a tiger. The water bursts forth from the nozzle in a torrent, filling the can up with a satisfying crescendoing sound.
From shrub to shrub, she sprays the plants with the cold water, admiring the glimmer of light reflected in each drop. When freshly watered, the flowers' beauty grows twofold. However, when she passes by one of the hydrangea bushes, she spots something peeking under the foliage. At the base of the plant lurks a small huddle of clovers, with some budding pinkish-white flowers peeking out from the heart-shaped leaves.
The tiger's eyes widen when locking onto the clutter of weeds. How did she manage to miss them? How troublesome. Suddenly, she sees it. Next to one of the blooming flowers is a four-leaf clover.
Lucky. Lucky me. Lucky lucky lucky.
Priya disembowels the clovers from the soil with a root-snapping crunch. With dull eyes, she hold the miserable dirt clutter of weeds above her, gazing into their capillary-like roots. That's not all of them. Glancing down, she spots the remaining stragglers, bruised and bent from the first assault. With her free hand, she rips them from their earthy home one by one until none remain.
Hands still tightly clenched into fists, she observes the limp shamrocks and neonate blooms. She takes a final glance at the 1 in 10,000 quad-leaved clover.
And forces the plants down her throat.