Wilting in the Dark
by Mirian Luna
Budding
I sit in my dark room for what appears to be a lifetime, wishing myself away. That is what every day is like, staying and sleeping and breathing. Nothing can tamper with my lovely room of darkness.
I’m not sure where this dark room came from, but I do know that it is mine. There’s a soft white blanket that's never folded on top of the bed. The pillows are halfway out of their coverings. Sometimes they fall to the floor and I just might pick them up. I have a door with no lock, but I never even use it. There’s a wooden bookshelf filled with more dust than books. Books I think I’ve read, although I don’t remember holding.
Maybe it’s a house, though there isn’t much to it. It’s only four walls and a door. Not to worry, it isn’t always dark. I do have a window. It’s hidden by a silk white curtain and when the wind picks up I catch a glimpse of the outside world. It blinds me. I never go there, I have no interest in it. Besides, it is no different from my dark room. It’s dim and I simply dislike the cold air on my skin.
For the third time today, I lay on my bed and close my eyes, huddling within the warmth of my non-existence. I used to be scared. I used to be suffocated by the darkness, but I’ve learned to accept it, to breathe within it. Besides, I can sleep all day without interruption and stay out of the world’s way. No one ever comes, but at least no one ever goes
That’s why I was surprised when I heard a knocking at my door. Gentle knuckles rapping at the wood as if trying not to scare what lies inside. I stay still, staring at my door. Maybe if I stay quiet it’ll go away. It doesn't. I can still hear those persistent knuckles tapping softly. A sigh escapes my lips and the knuckles stop. Did my sound make them leave? After a few minutes of my typical silence, the noise appears again and I become somewhat annoyed. Who is intervening with my sleep? With my dreaming. My breathing. Why are they trying to complicate my dark room?
I prop myself up onto my elbows as the door knob turns. I become more aggravated and I find myself sitting. The door slowly creaks open and the dim light of the outside world burns my eyes. The cool breeze beckons goosebumps to my skin. Now, my once untouched door holds an odd figure within its frame.
A boy with white hair looks at me and his face is calm, but his presence is exploding throughout my room.
“It’s so dark in here,” he comments. Is he judging me and my room? Do I disgust him? He steps forward, without my invitation. Curiosity replaces my aggravation and I’m somehow overwhelmed by the figure in my room, “Can you even see?”
I stay quiet as he pushes the door back, leaving it slightly agape. He walks around the room without caring to realize that he’s invading my space. “I can find some light if-.”
“N-No,” I stutter.
“Why are you stuttering? Are you cold?” he asks.
“W-Who are you?” I ignore his question.
He furrows his brows, whether it is in confusion or frustration, I’m not sure. “Don’t you know, flower bud? It’s me Rose.” He chuckles drly, walking over to my bookshelf and running his fingers along the dusty edges, “You’re different now, are you even alive?”
“I’m breathing just fine,” I reply, defensive yet barely above a whisper.
Am I supposed to know this odd boy? Who is he and why does he believe he knows me?
“I remember these books,” He says, “You wouldn’t shut up about them.”
He looks through my unrecognizable books as if he’s read them all before. A smile plays on his face, relaxing and widening with every title his finger touches. I don’t stop him or tell him to leave. I just watch in awe and wonder what he’ll do next.
No one ever comes and I’m waiting for him to go. This bothersome boy will eventually leave on his own and once again I can be all alone. He’s distracting me from my sleep and letting too much light seep in. I don’t need the outside world coming inside my dark room.
“Don’t you remember anything?” He asks, stepping away from the bookcase, “Don’t you at least remember me?”
He appears to be sad and I can’t understand why. Frankly, I don’t like interacting with others muchless comfort them. I rub my arms with my hands in an attempt to bring myself warmth.
He notices and speaks up, “Are you cold? I’d close the door, but then I wouldn’t be able to see.”
“Then why don’t you leave?” I ask.
“Do you want me to?” is his reply.
“I never asked you to come,” is all I say.
“Then I guess we’ll have to compromise,” He shrugs, “You allow me light and I will provide you with warmth.”
Compromise?
He takes his own sweater and pulls it over my head. With that he continues roaming around the small area of my room. The way he holds himself is peaceful and light. Even his footsteps are gentle as if there’s glass figurines under his feet. He’s this mystical being, floating around and completely bringing a stop to my reality.
I watch him ever so carefully as he continues inspecting my dusty bookshelf.
“That was a funny one.” He chuckles.
I have no idea what he is talking about. I am mesmerized by this being. The light seeping from the door almost reflects off his skin. His hair appears to be illuminating within the shadows of my room. It is like he’s a walking flashlight, making the dark walls visible. Walls I did not realize hold picture frames up until now.
“These pictures are a bit dirty, come see them,” he calls.
I shake my head, refusing to stand. I did not wish to be so close to him.
“I’m alright,” I wave him off.
He shrugs his shoulders. Once again, this sad look lingers over his face but he smiles at me regardless. Do I make him sad?
“I’ll take my leave for now,” he places a hand on the door knob and looks over his shoulder, “I’m awfully lonesome without you. So, please come around again.”
Again?
With that he gives me one last smile and exits the room, taking all of his light with him.
Flowering
That wasn’t the last time Rose made his appearance. He comes almost everyday, knocking and entering. Gentles knuckles tapping and light hair floating through the dark. He’s always going on and on about the books on the shelves and the frames on the wall. There’s something about him I don’t understand. Everyday when he comes in I sit on my bed, wear his sweater, and utter little to no words. Everyday it is the same; he gets nothing from me. He dislikes my room.Despite this, everyday he returns just to receive nothing. He even questions if I’m even alive. Then, why is he so persistent to come visit a rotting corpse?
“How are you today, flowerbud?” He greets.
“What do you want?” I yawn, rubbing my eternally exhausted eyes. They’re always swollen and red.
“I’m doing great too, thanks for asking,” he rolls his eyes playfully. “Guess what I brought.”
He holds something behind his back with one hand, a brown object barely peeking out. He gives me his usual toothy grin. One that I find absolutely blinding.
“What is it?” I ask.
“C’mon, guess.” He urges, grey eyes shining at me.
He has stars for eyes and I find myself being frozen by them. They are these bright, unreadable eyes. Eyes that hold everything and only want for more. Eyes that are constantly waiting and expecting and hoping. Eyes that I can never satisfy even if I cared to try. Somehow I submerge in those eyes. Floating within them as I take what I cannot give back from them.
“Just show me.” I say.
“You can be so boring sometimes.” He sighs jokingly.
Rose tosses his sweater at me and I let my head poke through it. It has provided me with more warmth than the thin white blanket I messily keep on the bed. He places a brown wooden box on my floor and I tilt my head to the side in curiosity.
There has never been anything new inside my room until Rose. He was the newest asset here, but now he’s brought something else.
“I thought you could use some color,” He tells me as he removes the lid from the box.
He reveals an array of many colors, all lined neatly.
“Chalk,” he informs me.
He picks up this pale pink from the box and drags it along my floor. A dust of pink follows it as he moves it along in many directions. This piques my interest and I’m now sitting at the edge of the bed, bare feet dangling.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“You’ll see.” He replies.
I sit and watch as his hands get to work. He gently glides the chalk, sometimes switching colors.
I’ve come to notice a lot about Rose these past few visits. He has this messy hair that he likes to run his hands through only for it to become messier. He pulls at his face like it’s paper, trying to smooth it out. Then there’s this gaze he has when he speaks to me, looks at me. One I can’t comprehend and one that I find unsettling. I’m still not sure if he’s mad, or sad, maybe even confused?
“All done.” He says, waiting for my reaction.
I look at the picture that is now on my once plain floor. I can’t make much out of it from the bed. My toes touch the cold floor and I wince at the feeling. Looking back at Rose, he smiles at his picture and I wonder how it feels to have that sensation play it’s way on to my own face. I shiver as I stand. Both my feet make complete contact with the floor. My reluctant legs find their way though it feels like weights are tied around. The center of my chest is sinking and I wrap my thin fingers around my skinny arms.
I stand next to Rose and look at his drawing. It seems like it could be such a bright color, yet it looks so dull. It’s this big tree. A tree that looks so unusual and so unfamiliar. The bark is brown and there’s so many pink petals. Petals that are falling messily all around it. It’s raining pink.
“It’s a cherry blossom,” He tells me, “Like in one of those old books of yours.”
I have no idea what he’s talking about. I crouch down and continue looking on at the tree. I have never seen anything like it. Are most trees not green?
“There’s a ton if you go far enough outside,” he tells me, “I remember how much you used to disturb them.”
“Disturb them?” I raise a brow.
“By climbing them,” he says, crouching down next to me.
I unravel my fingers from my arm and gently touch the art work. The chalk is soft and smooth. It smells familiar, it smells of Rose. As I observe the chalk lingering on my fingers I notice Rose watch me. I feel a bit nervous not liking his eyes. I don’t like how they observe me for what I am. So I hurriedly stand and my hand clumsily brushes his shoulder. I leave a mark of pink on his white shirt and I suddenly feel guilty.
“Sorry,” I mumble.
He waves his hands and laughs, “Clumsy as always.”
His laugh rings throughout the room and to my ears, moving along the walls of my mind. His laugh is like music.
Wilting
Rose started to come early in the morning. In an hour I had never been awake before. Sometimes he’ll sit on the floor and flip through the pages of a book. I would fall asleep and he didn’t seem to mind at all. He always remembers to place his sweater right on top of me. Then, he’ll just sit and wait until I gain the energy to look at him. When he notices that my attention is on him he’ll start rambling on and on about both nothing and everything.
I wonder if he ever gets bored just waiting for me all the time. I wonder if he’ll ever grow bored of me. I peek an eye open and there’s that smile I’ve grown to tolerate.