You stand back and lean on your dirty shovel, wiping sweat off your forehead with the back of your free hand and stare at the patch of freshly upturned earth a few paces ahead. The deed is done.
And then, one day, your hard work pays off. The vivid green finger of the seed you had sown pokes out of the soil, extending day by day as it struggles to touch the sky. You immediately begin nurturing it. Soon, it unfurls a leaf, and then another one and then one more.
But things begin to go wrong.
You watch in horror as the seedling, tainted by the touch of some fell force, begins to transform into something twisted. Sharp spines and midnight black thorns sprout all over it until it seems jagged enough to cut the very air surrounding it. It grows - fast - but at odd, horribly contorted angles. The flowers it sends out in the dead of winter are dark red, black even, and give off the unmistakable, metallic stench of blood.
What do you do?
What do you do when you begin to grow into the wrong sort of person, the kind of person you never wished to become?
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