The procession was about to start. They lined up solemnly with their designated flowers in hand.

Not her though. She picked her own flower.  A dead one for that was how her heart felt. Her insides were torn apart and gurgling up blood.  There was nothing to be happy about. Everything had lost its meaning. She felt like a discarded rag doll. Why had they all left? And why were they the so-called lucky ones? She turned to look at her fellow survivors. They carried carnations, tulips and one even had a cactus. They were all delusional and too accepting of the story being passed around.

They started walking quietly and threw the flowers into the vat.  With that the cocktail was ready.