Beautiful Things

Once upon a time, a boy loved a girl.

One day, as he was walking home from school, he happened upon a garden of roses as red as blood, as beautiful as the sun. The boy realized this was his chance to win the girl’s heart. But as he plucked the beautiful flower, its thorns pierced through his soft skin like claws.

Blood streamed from his wounds, falling like raindrops, turning the snow-white garden floor dark red. The boy fell on the ground dead, holding the rose, blood pouring from his heart as red as the flower that killed him.

Everything is dark about today, including my mind.

The sky is a shade of gray, as in the aftermath of a storm. The trees are pitch black in the shadows, leaves draped on the branches like a dead man hanging, swinging limp on a rope. 

My hand is in his hand and he asks me what I am thinking about. He always does this: look at my face like he can’t believe we’re together. Then he asks what I am thinking. I don’t tell him I am fantasizing murder and the thrill I’ve heard comes with it. Dead bodies and killing, I’ve noticed, tend to scare away any hopes of a normal social conversation.

I tell him I am thinking about dying, which is true, more or less. Everything is true, more or less, really. In the same logic, everything is also false, more or less. Reality probably doesn’t exist. 

He says something about being scared of death, which I don’t understand. Death is not something I am, or ever was, scared of. I say so, and he thinks that I am very brave. Fearlessness and bravery are two different things. When he says that I am brave, he means I am lying; I am scared of death but I am pretending I am not. Bravery is pretense, fearlessness is stupidity. Really, everything is true, more or less.

I love you, he says.

I love you, I say. We are now robots repeating ‘I love you’ to give affirmations of love. What is love? I don’t know, but it feels nice.

“Are you okay? You don’t seem like yourself today,” he says.

Myself, I say. Who am I?

He asks what I mean. I am Rose. I am in high school. I am beautiful. Who else can I be? He asks.

Those are all attributes, I say. That is my name. That is my age. Those are my looks. I am no more defined by adjectives that describe my physical being than an apple is defined as red. Who am I really?

You are being silly, he says. He is scared because I never, ever act up.

I have never been more serious in my life. I am screaming now. I haven’t screamed since my family was torn apart and I don’t know why I haven’t screamed more since. Screaming releases all my emotions into the vast oblivion of air, space, and time. You do not understand me and you never will, I scream. I am not being myself? You do not want me to be myself.

If anyone knew me, really knew me, my inside and out, my thoughts and my desires, the things I hide underneath this beautiful shell, would they love me? The answer is no; we all have to pretend, pretend, pretend. What is the point of life when we do not live as ourselves? And what is the point of living as ourselves if not in love?

Really, everything is false, more or less.

He looks scared. He is scared. He wants to run but I cannot let him run. He wants to hide but hiding is for cowards and I loathe cowards. I grab his hand and pull him in. Like a spider drawing in a fy. Like a hook pulling in a fish. He struggles first then relaxes in my arms. “I’m sorry,” I say, but I do not say why.

We lie on the forest floor, staring up at the sky. People are scared of the dark because of what it hides but I am not scared of the dark because I am what it hides. The darkness hides me and I am not afraid.

Have you ever wondered what lies in the stars? Beyond there? Sometimes I think that there is someone and he is watching us. What is he thinking? Do you know?

He does not answer and I like it better this way. He talks too much. I find that my impression of people is better when they are not talking. When he does not talk, I can imagine what he is thinking and what he might say. What someone might have said is almost always wiser than what they would actually say. As usual, reality tends to disappoint imagination.

I love you, he says.

Who am I?

And he will say who I am, but I cannot imagine what he will say. I do not know who I am myself. Who am I? I say out loud and I look over to see what he will say.