My eyes finally let out the last of my anguish. I have let go of any resentment and guilt. It’s the twenty-first century isn’t it? This stuff happens all the time. I pull myself off the cold, damp tiles and glare at the mirror. How could you let this happen, I ask myself? But how could I have not? It was a great idea- while it lasted. I’m not the only one to do it and I know he thought it was as great as well. But… he’s so cold this morning. I peer back through to the bed. His form still visible despite the darkness, I want to hold him. I miss him. I worked so hard to hold him down, to make sure we would be together.
One Thursday morning, about eight months ago, the doorbell shuddered through the apartment and lifted me out of a stupor and I absently walked to the side door, hoping he was on the other side. Usually I’d still be in my pajamas but today I dressed to match my pop tart breakfast, in an equally cheery purple off the shoulder dress, my favorite brown knee high boots ...dark emerald socks. I wanted to look good for him. It had been so many years since we'd even been in the same country. I missed him. It would be good to see him after all this time, he'd be proud of me? I wedged the door open in trepidation and all my expectation and hopes pored through the gap like a sun-ray passing through the eye of a needle.
“Good morning madam, may I ask you where you’ll think you’ll be in ten years time?” I stared at the man bleakly as the mirage of life split in two, like an overripe orange sliced keenly in two, revealing the bitterly raw flesh. He had not come. I closed the door. The man slipped the cancer awareness leaflet though the post slot and left muttering angrily about people’s considerations and how it wasn't his fault if I was having a bad day. But over all he left to go on with his life and what ever his job was and back to whomever he loved. I had that too, but it wasn't the same. I knew the answer to his question. The answer was I would be here.
A few days passed and the door rang again. I was still in my pajamas, an old ‘Nirvana’ t-shirt and some bottoms that were a Christmas gift, covered in hundreds of little snowmen in red knitwear. I knew it wouldn't be him. He doesn't love me anymore. He’s with her. So I ignored it and nibbled on my toast and sipped my coffee. But it kept ringing, so reluctantly I stood and answered it only to see the same man as on Thursday.
He asked me the same question, but this time waving a new leaflet, this time on mental health awareness, under my nose. I gave him my answer I decided from before.
“Um, now you don’t sound too happy about that?” He said.
“I don’t care. It doesn't matter anymore.” I replied.
“Look, I don’t usually do this but you seem pretty down.” He wrote an address on the back of the leaflet with a crooked smile, looking up at my face after every word or so, his brown shaggy hair catching in his lashes as he did so. His mouth was almost circular and very feminine which was set on a rather stubble filled, angular jaw. He had no blemishes or freckles and had pale but rosy skin. He was very attractive. And he still is. “It starts at two pm today and on Mondays. There’ll be a lot of people there. I go myself…it helps.” I thanked him and he left, this time smiling to himself.
The bottle was adorned with little gems of water that caught the light and reflected it around the restaurant, looking like starstruck eyes. Watching me. Blue glass dulled the red inside. It was encased and safe; its taste was dormant. Until the waiter opened it . From the other side of the table, he saw my hand twitch as the waiter did so, and reached out to hold me. We got on so well at the meeting; I thought how glad I was I answered the door. I don’t care now if it wasn't who I had first hoped it was. I know now why my Dad didn't come and I’m fine with it, I think I knew it then, in some way. His rosy square hand caressed my fingertips. I remember thinking, is this what love is like? It felt so much better than anything else I've ever had. So much better than I could have ever wished for, or could have dreamed of. I thought about the chances of him coming to my flat two times in a row and just knew it was because it was meant to be. And our first date was going so well!
“Do you like the place?” He asked me. I said I did, very much. He gave my hand a squeeze. “And the chicken? How is it?” I told him it was the best I’d ever had and stared into his eyes. This was when I first noticed their colour. They were a cloudy grey. I wondered if they used to be blue when he was a baby. Some people’s eye colour changes, you see, and I wondered if his had changed. It reminded me of when we painted our house in summer. We painted it a light green. I didn’t like it much but Dad and me worked on it together along with Uncle John. My Mum made us icy lemonade and a quiche that had bacon and peas in it and we ate it all together on a tablecloth, very much like the one on the table in the restaurant. I remember that I kept going to the next-door neighbors for over a year, because I kept forgetting we had changed the colour to the nasty off green. Next door looked more like my house than mine did. They never asked me what I thought.
“What are you thinking about? I love it when your eyes look like that; I never know where you’ve gone.” I shrugged. I didn't want to tell him. I don’t know why but I didn't so I just fed him some of my chicken and asparagus. I really like asparagus. It looks like little darts.
At the end of the evening we sauntered back to my flat, along the black tarmac road river and under the inky blue sky that glittered constantly like when you strike flint together. He kissed me at the door. I was to see him tomorrow as well. I couldn't have been any more excited.
It was hot outside. The water whirled around the vase like a storm would if you ever tried to encase her, the bubbles tearing into the surface and frothing. I didn't say a thing. I never say a thing. I drowned the stems after sheering them into a point and placed the bouquet in pride of place on my grandmothers mahogany table, the lace table cloth he bought me for my birthday last year looked as brilliant as it had in the shop, only there was a little tear from when I took off the label. He screamed at me about how he was only ever being nice, I found myself only able to look at the flowers. He had bought me: aconitum, buttercups, daffodils and monkhood. No roses any more. The harder I stared, the more they sucked in all the colours in the entire room. Soon the purples and yellows grew too vivid, like poison, and turned into hemlock and grew briers.
“Are you listening to me?” His hands were at my elbows and they shook me slightly. “Where is your head at lately? Are you unhappy with me, Jessie? Look, I’m sorry I shouted at you. Work was hard today, stressful. I know I say that a lot now and that’s why the flowers. You can trust me, sweetie. You know you can.” And then he leaned in to kiss my head cheeks and mouth. The mood of the room shifted and the flowers gave the colours they had stolen back. The light seemed less hot and we shifted on the spot in a sort of dance. I was so happy in that moment. Nothing else mattered. We whispered how much we loved each other.
This was the night I thought that I had fell pregnant. He wanted to call her Flower after what had caused her conception. I said I’d rather call her Brier. It sounds like that fairy tale that my Dad used to tell me about a princess locked up in the tower and rescued by a handsome prince, I felt like I’d been rescued that day I answered the door. And I thought how pretty the name was, and I wished it were mine. I lay on my back and stared through the windowpane to see how the leaves had turned copper and grown gaunt. The doctor rubbed the gel on my stomach and told me that the suspicions were correct, I had miscarried.
Weeks after, we walked past the bakery on the way home and I looked bitterly into the window. Bun in the oven. I hated that cliché, but I longed to say it and it is true. He didn't know that it was the bakery that made me cry. He thought I was just sad at him. He told me we’d try again if I wanted; she’d been an accident anyway. I looked out through the black webs my lashes had formed, as my stomach told a well-rounded lie, and told him I wasn't upset at him. I was just upset. The streets were ghostly quiet as everyone was working. We had a visitor when we got home, but I simply told her to go away, I would not be attending, I simply couldn't bare my Dad’s funeral right now. I literally couldn't bare anything. She said I was heartless. I thought of the little heart that was no longer beating. She thought I was crying for him. I am always crying for her.
We put flowers on her grave yesterday, together. The same kind we had on my Grandmothers table. It wasn’t long until frost clung to the delicate petals. He wrapped his arm around me and told me we’d be ok. He’d got that idea in his head. I had an idea too. I placed my head on his chest and hid from the snow that sheeted around us. The letters of ‘Briar Flower Brown’ were now twisted and engraved into my eyelids, the beads of ice still nestled in the indents and the soil still freshly stirred. Turning away did not hide that she had lived. The trees were still as empty as me, with their branches held in a lament for the loss of their leaves.
Here I am now, stood in the bathroom. He’s lying in bed waiting for me. I've tried to be ok. But that idea seemed the best solution. I think I did right. I know I did right. He was fine; he liked it, as it had been so long. I’m moving back into the bedroom and can see him roughly, his eyes still closed. I sit down next to him and tell him I love him, him and Briar. The rosiness has gone. His brown hair still curls in towards his eyelids and he holds his gentle mouth slightly parted, in a crooked smile. But he doesn't reply. I pull back the sticky scarlet linen and stare into his perfectly pallid face... the line on his neck is sharp to my eyes, even in the dawn’s soft lazy lighting. As are the holes in his chest, but I was careful to miss his heart. His heart is important, it wouldn't be right for me to ruin it. He gave it to me to keep safe and he kept mine safe, so it wouldn't be right to hurt it now. It’s getting lighter in this room as his skin is getting paler. My pen is running out and so I’ll finish. This is my note, my solace. I don’t care. It doesn't matter anymore…
This is a short story I wrote my first year in college,
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