- Looking at the Flowerpot Man in a Full Length Mirror
- Birth of the Flowerpot Man
- Answers from the Flowerpot Man
End of the Flowerpot Man
I think it’s simply a case of being pushed too far. Everyone has a trigger, something which sets them off, and the reasons that lead to the trigger can be numerous, the amount they can handle varying. Someone might snap at one-off hand comment, someone may do it after a barrage over the course of a year. Whatever the case, everyone has a trigger, and when said trigger is pulled, well, who knows what they’ll do.
As for myself, it tends to build and switch within a couple of months. Names, realisations, comments, moments, they all contribute to the building pressure of being a flowerpot man, and when I trigger it tends to end badly.
Sometimes it ends even worse than badly. Like recently, this one time, when I couldn’t take myself any more. People brought me close to my trigger, and of course I had to go and set it off on my own. I was looking in the mirror, at my stupid gangling potted arms, my giant put chest and my hollow uncanny valley face. This would never change, I would never change. So I plunged my fist into the mirror, shattering it in a way which didn’t look too dissimilar to the Black Flag album cover ‘Damaged’. At this point my mind went, and I woke up about thirty minutes later on the kitchen floor.
Turns out I starting pulling out drawers, flinging the contents onto the floor, letting them really crash and scratch the fake wood. Once there was nothing left to fling I charged into the landing, crawling on all fours, screaming, crying, and charging into any nearby walls. I bashed my head through the plaster, chunks of my potted face coming undone. I let pieces slide off, let them stick into the carpet, and as I realised someone was home, and heard them shout, I flung myself down the stairs. My knees shattered upon landing, the stringy flesh snapping along with the pots.
I think I was bleeding out all other the living room floor as I crawled through it. I heard someone shouting about calling the police, but it was so very very distant. The only thing processing in my head was pain, and as I made it to the kitchen, I could no longer move myself forward. Knives wouldn’t have done too much to my skin anyway, bashing my head against the hard wooden flooring was more ideal. I saw white flashes, I saw part of myself not coming back up with my head. And I felt someone on top of me, preventing me from doing any more harm to myself. I think it was my mother, the first time she’d held me in quite some time.
That was when I came too, that was when I could start piecing it all together, but I needed a doctor to piece my actual physical self back. Even though things could have gone worse, this felt like a conclusion, an ending, and I thought to myself that if there was really life after death, how could one desire it when the current life is so screwy?
I cried for hours, and after the dust settled, I found help and got better.
That’s what I think you’d want to hear anyhow.