[ WP ] Once the St. Lalaurie Flower blooms , it has the power to grant one wish . But for it to mature and bloom , the gardener must endure years of torment and anguish .

The newly planted precious flower sat in my garden, a radiant stem with a simple bud crowning its top ruled over the lesser flowers in my garden: the tulips paled in comparison, the daisies seemed to whither, and the roses loss their tint. With the St. Lalaurie blooms, every want and every desire could be fulfilled. 
 
 Of course there was superstition of years of torment before earning my wish, but it was all hogwash. It was nothing more than old wives tales to entertain old hags. 
 
 Every day, I took the utmost care for my precious St. Lalaurie. I watered it, checked the pH of the soil, and scolded the children for playing with it. That flower was our bread and butter. There ’ s no way I ’ d let the kids ruin our future. 
 
 Every day, right after work, I stepped past the wife and children so that I could examine and take care of the precious botanical treasure in my garden. The other flowers died, but it didn ’ t matter; everything I needed would be in my grasp soon enough. 
 
 Every day, my work became a distraction and my family ’ s voice became a drone of monotony. The children grew. My wife aged. The garden thrived with the most perfect flower at its focal point. 
 
 Every day, I sat by my St. Lalaurie. I bathed it, nourished it, and loved it. I barely noticed my family leave, but it didn ’ t matter. I still had the light of my day and the love of my life. I only had to wait and everything could be mine. 
 
 One day, after untold years, after my clothes grew ragged and after my hair fell out in clumps, the sacred, beautiful bud bloomed into brilliant pedals of the most alluring shade of violent my eyes had ever seen. I looked down on its unparalleled elegance and spoke: 
 
 “ I wish…. ” 
 
 I started as I trailed off. I looked at myself. My ribs showed in malnourishment. My clothes smelled like the fertilizer I used for the plant. My wife left me years ago; abandoning the man she loved and lost to the desire of the flower. Because of this flower, my children, Timothy and…Elizabeth…I think—Oh God I can ’ t even remember their names. They were once my pride and joy and because of this damned flower they never grew up with a father. 
 
 I sunk to my knees and clutched at the dirt as tears rolled down my cheeks. 
 
 “ I wish…I wish I had my life again. ”
