(day one)
he is alone in a room, and has been for quite some time. the curtains are closed; the evening light writhes through the thin fabric, enough to see by but not enough that it doesn’t leave the shadows long and bathed in red and orange. layers of blankets are tucked around him, enough that he is sweating but not enough that he doesn’t still shiver.
the quiet room houses his rasping breaths; in and out, in and out. his eyes crack open; he wasn’t sure if he’d ever really closed them (if he’d ever really fallen asleep). there is a deep ache in his chest as if his ribs were fractured, and his chest feels sore from doing nothing but rising and falling. his fingertips keep dancing with needles and pinpricks; his body is simply an instrument that somebody else plays (faintly, he thinks of a brother with a guitar, and plucked strings from calloused fingers). sometimes, his eyes would close for a mere second and when he would open them, everything around him would have changed. (he wonders how much time he has left.)
(dreaming)
the field of flowers dances beneath a blue and cloudless sky. stalks swaying under the weight of many petals, surrounding him until they are all he could see. their roots are woven into his skin, deep within his veins. the petals, once soft and welcoming, become needles and knives, dripping with his blood, dancing with death (hurting, hurting, hurting—). his breathing remains steady; in and out, in and out. (he wished everything would stop.)
he stares up; the sky overhead is beginning to bleed into orange hues invading pale blues. there are clouds gathering at the edge of his vision (and it's like he's a child again, watching the sky with his family right beside him). it has to be growing closer to evening, but he isn’t sure how long he’s been laying here.
he can hear something—a forest? (he wished he could get up to see it). beyond the brush of flowers in the wind is the crackling of branches against each other and the crinkling of leaves. maybe it is autumn, and the forest is dry, colored with orange and red, and it is the sound of leaves falling to the ground. maybe it is winter, and it is the sound of the frost covered leaves curling in a frigid breeze. maybe it is summer, or spring, and the leaves are coming back to life. or maybe there was no forest, and it was just the flower fairies playing tricks on him. he breathes deep, watching the flowers around him (on him? in him?). they are heavy, oh so heavy. he isn’t sure if he’d have the energy to breathe again. (and if a flower dipped down to face him, its petals brushing his lips with a promise, he would not remember.)
(day two)
the curtains still cover the windows, the thin fabric doing little to block the sunlight. there are birds singing outside, strong and unimpeded (like a father he wishes to be like). he thinks of the forest he has never seen (and he mourns that he never will). he waits for the sky to change again (for when it gets dark, it would be over).
with his eyes, he traces the swirls of the wood patterns carved into the ceiling, counting all the cluttered boxes he could see from his bed. he feels heavy in ways he can’t explain, and empty, oh so empty. his mind threatens to be consumed with thoughts of the flowers, of the forest. he settles for pretending he could float in the numbness in which his body tingles. the curtains flitter, and the open window lets in a soft breeze and the smell of sweet flowers (when did he open it? did the forest fairies come by?).
(dreaming)
the sky over the field of flowers is inundated with clashing oranges, pinks, and purples bleeding into dark and heavy clouds that seem to hide a tragedy, waiting for a storm to come. (there is no escape.) the wind grows violent, gusts creating a greater racket from the forest (he’d never seen it, is it even real?). he closes his eyes and tries to picture what the forest is like, but he can’t seem to focus. the roots of the flowers are digging into his skull—and could he feel the phantom touch of one wrapped around his throat? (it was soft when it brushed against his lips, it is soft when it tears open his neck.)
(day three)
the windows are shut (were they ever really open?) and the thin material of the closed curtains lets in a red and orange glow that casts long shadows over the room. it’s quiet, oh so very quiet. he mourns the company he once had, the forest he never saw. his eyelids droop like heavy flower petals, but he hasn’t managed to fall asleep yet (did he want to?) he wonders what would happen if he stayed awake (will death be rough?) he wonders what would happen if he fell asleep (will death be gentle?) it is cold beneath layers of blankets. he closes his eyes, pretending that he doesn’t hate everything, and that just once, he will get a happy ending. (he didn’t know what a happy ending looked like anymore.)
(dreaming)
he is in the field of flowers, the sky wide and open above him, bathed in deep blues and blacks (and it came after a sunset he’d never seen). he watches as evening turns to dusk, and dusk turns to night. it is cold. his fingers press against frigid soil, and his cheeks burn in the icy air (was he really outside?).
there are clouds, plentiful and darker and heavier than the days before. he wonders if it might rain (would it make a difference?). the flowers around him draw closer and hug him tight, curling around him and cradling his head (were those shadows in his vision just flowers too?). he wonders if it is a large forest, if it surrounds him on all sides, if he might be able to hear everything clearly if only there weren’t so many flowers around him, holding him. their petals are soft on his cracked lips (like a mother whispering sweet promises on a breeze). he spoke hoarse words that were heard by no one, not the forest, not even himself.
he is alone in the field of flowers.
draped across the field of flowers is a blanket of orange paints and soft pinks and baby blues. the wind pushes and pulls at the tall stalks, waving (hello?). he opens his eyes to the sky, cloudless once more, a canvas, a palette of colors that seemed to bloom the longer he looked at it. his eyes are light and clear and free of flowers, and when he lifts his hand, the flowers that once held it let him go.
he sits up (is he free?) and the flowers that once cradled him (that once cut him) do nothing but feebly meander over his skin (did they want him back?) and oh. he can actually see it now, a dark and tangled mess surrounding the field in the distance. here, he can see the branches clacking in the wind. here, he can see someone standing between the field and the forest. for a moment, it is still, looking, watching, (searching). but then it lifts one hand to wave (at him?) he waves back, and realizes something that sends fear and trepidation and eagerness through his body. the thought is soft against his mind (petals soft on his lips).
he is not alone in the field of flowers.
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