by Florian P.

I explore the world by its colors. Bright, dim, everything in between, connected to their own hue. I yearn and take in the day, each moment that creates the explosion of a painter’s palette, coming alive and revealing themselves to me in pieces, bit by bit. This is how I try to keep learning, to keep dreaming. I’m not often allowed to see people, when they visit the house, outside of the doctors that come each month. And even less so, am I allowed to leave my family’s home at all. With each cough and the pain in my chest growing worse, stronger—the illness that is, not my own body—Mama too grows sterner regarding my condition.

I stare out at the window and watch as the world turns. It's so big, and so grand, I think. I don't really know, that is to say, I really want to find out. Mama says I’m not even allowed to go outside. Mama cares, I know she does, but her presence is more stifling than any of my trembling breaths. It feels like the ceiling is falling, every wall closing in. The bandages on my skin itch. I scratch them when no one is looking.

It's hard to find an escape from this claustrophobia, even in our big house. The Greenhouse: looming plants and wet air, the itchiness that comes with the creepy crawlies from the dirt. The Brown Study: more of a bedroom to Papa than his own, the old scent of worn paper, pages filled with words I can’t understand, and the lock on the door keeps me out most of the time. The Yellow Room: where the sun filters through the curtains, casting the glow of light across the pale wallpaper shining like gold; the chaise lounges, and the silken rugs sitting in wait to come alive each dawn. The Grey Library: more books, but never touched, and the sadness that lingers because they can’t fulfill their purpose, seeing the shadows of forgotten spirits drift along the books, long fingers curling around bookshelves, and the weeping that hangs in the air like the portraits, the ghosts can’t move on. The dust in every unused room makes me feel worse. All these rooms with all these colors make up the world for me now and so still it all is.

I spend time in the Brown Study to keep away from the Grey Library and still, find myself distracted from any reading. So little matters these days, the ticking clock I am nevertheless aware of. The Greenhouse is my favorite. Letting the damp warm air settle against me as I move through the plants and the flowers. Perhaps, the freshest air that I’m fortunate in this space to fill up my lungs will somehow reverse the decay that’s trapped within me. I wonder. That life itself will heal me, green vines, green stems, green leaves, all wrapping around me to rejuvenate my soul. I can't imagine too hard, I think, because then I'd break reality for everyone else. Break free from this sickness, break free from this prison.

Today, however, I wipe off the condensation from the windows and stare out at the flower fields. The Rose bushes are in full bloom, speckled with blushy pinks and red. Weeds of Rue like the leftover splatter of yellow across the land. Orchids and Peonies and Chrysanthemums and Tulips. Most impressive of all, the bright and shining Lilies that remain at the center of it all. Ever growing, their large petals pour out past their stem, reaching out. Their absence of color is a stark contrast to the world around them, forcing your attention. In their eeriness, they remain still so unearthly beautiful. The groomed gardens that sprawl across the estate. Who takes care of them, I do not know. And why they are so carefully manicured and well kept, I could only guess. Yet, it still is an awe to watch the light shift, their hues changing ever so slightly from dawn to dusk.

Overheard, a band of Blue jays soar above me. I want to feel as free as they do, swooping against the clouds, and balancing on the breeze. They’re beautiful, a dark wash of color against the ever light blue of the sky. It makes me think of leaving the nest, and I hold a palm against my aching chest. One bird flies away from the flock, dives down to meet me, like it can see me and know me. I want to open my arms to it, to meet it in the fresh air, and hold it close. To leave this place, and fly higher than ever before.

It crashes against the glass, so suddenly. What once seemed so graceful, now a smear of feathers. I watch, in horror, as it slips down. And once it falls, the bird doesn’t get up. It doesn’t fly away. The flock continues, past the trees. There’s no one to wrap its wings in bandages. No one to help it back on its feet, or help it learn how to fly again. With the glass panes between us, unsure which of us it’s meant to keep safe, I can only stare down at its mangled body in the dirt, its broken wings. I watch until I can’t any longer, feeling my own tears roll down my cheeks. The humidity of the Greenhouse makes me choke on my breath.

A crash. A suffocation. All that’s left of me. And the flowers? They must be the bouquet of my ending. White like lilies, red like blood.

I cough into my own hand and, like a painter’s brush to falling petals, sweep the blotches of color across my trousers.

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Florian P. (he/him) writes sometimes. He hopes, sometime soon, that “sometimes” will turn into “more often than not.” You can find his work here or there.