They grow in my mother's garden. Their pure, silky petals reach out like the hungry arms of a lover—yearning ... caressing ... waiting ... I want to touch them but I am afraid. They look so peaceful and enticing, but just like a woman, they hide and deceive. Please, don't get too close to my mother's wild violets—their beauty is evil, their fragrance is death, and what lies beneath them is too horrible to see!