Freedom Is A Funny Thing
*~*~*
The sun rose the same it did any other day. The lazy, dull golden rays cracked through the blinds she kept open. She didn't mind the sunlight breaking in the early dawn hours, awakening her by casting thick shadows across her closed lids.
The rain even fell the same. Showers on stormy days were strangely consoling, something like her tears on worse days. The tears on her better days, however, were an entirely different matter.
Freedom was a funny thing. She thought it would feel better, somehow, like living in an entirely perpendicular dimension where the birds always sang and there was no such thing as this empty, hollow, god-awful ache in the pit of her stomach.
Roses. Her garden grew, immensely, row upon row and aisle upon aisle. She invented a new breed of them, taking specific care and hours of labor to perfect the most difficult characteristic of all.
The color. No matter how she try, the petals never portrayed the subtle shade she was looking for. Luscious yet light, naïve but worldly. Pink like the strands of her hair, flowing but ending in abrupt split ends thanks to disuse and carelessness. No, roses could never hope to be anything more than roses.
Despite that, she still displayed them all over her property. The yard, the walkway, kitchen and bedroom. Even bathroom when she bathed in their sweet, euphoric juices. Roses. Roses everywhere. Roses in vines, scattered. Roses in vases, purple and pink, with their stems entwined like a pair of lovers forever walking side by side.
There was always one lone white rose.
It was a good thing she never had company, or else they would tire of her sickly rose obsession. Light cherry roses tied into her lavender hair, spilling down her shoulders to the narrow base of her back where she wished she could be held. Naked rose petals swimming in her vision when she thought of how it must feel to have a flower cut from her very own breast.
Cotton flakes of snow fell the same as they always had. Except now she had the freedom to attempt and enjoy the weather. Frost bitten fingers and ears, she never bothered bundling up to go out into feet deep snow piles. Cloudy, aside from the chill, she could have almost pretended they were the footsteps on the way to heaven.
Snowmen were too complicated. But snow angels were simple. Compact snow made for a blanket she could twist and turn into a lovely embodiment of light. She hated angels. Perfect, selfless people who gave themselves for horrible witches. People who sacrificed everything to make someone happy. The person who left this world so that she could enjoy freedom. Stupid, blind girl who failed to realize that she could never enjoy anything without being with her now. Not her body, not heaven, not even her freedom.
None of her angels had halos.
Even the leaves fell the same. Crispy brown, and she blended right in when she lay down in their bed. Not as comfortable as roses, but more suiting for rebellious days where she could pretend she didn't give a damn. Days when the earth never turned on its axis. Days when she swore to herself she would wake up, and her set of eyes would not be the only one with thick sunlight shadows waking her up in the morning.
Freedom was a useless thing. There was nothing but grief painted on the walls of her heart. Four chambers for each season of loneliness. Grief, depression, sorrow and madness. Freedom at a price she never would dare to pay.
She saw the roses everywhere. Roses in her tea. Roses in her dreams. Roses crying for her, and everything serene.
Pink and purple roses, both blooming from different roots. Coupled in the vases, crying side by side.
Until she cut them from their stem, and crushed their blank exterior.
Colored roses everywhere, draping all the halls. Pink and purple side by side, drowning out her cries.
She kept them to remind her. She kept them to forget. She kept them so she could smile. And she kept them so she could cry. She stroked them, then watered them. And killed them all for glee. Skewing the lies they fed her, and what she could never be.
Though the lone white rose still went untouched.
Dangling from its noose on the bedroom wall.
*~*~*
The sun rose the same it did any other day. The lazy, dull golden rays cracked through the blinds she kept open. She didn't mind the sunlight breaking in the early dawn hours, awakening her by casting thick shadows across her closed lids.
The rain even fell the same. Showers on stormy days were strangely consoling, something like her tears on worse days. The tears on her better days, however, were an entirely different matter.
Freedom was a funny thing. She thought it would feel better, somehow, like living in an entirely perpendicular dimension where the birds always sang and there was no such thing as this empty, hollow, god-awful ache in the pit of her stomach.
Roses. Her garden grew, immensely, row upon row and aisle upon aisle. She invented a new breed of them, taking specific care and hours of labor to perfect the most difficult characteristic of all.
The color. No matter how she try, the petals never portrayed the subtle shade she was looking for. Luscious yet light, naïve but worldly. Pink like the strands of her hair, flowing but ending in abrupt split ends thanks to disuse and carelessness. No, roses could never hope to be anything more than roses.
Despite that, she still displayed them all over her property. The yard, the walkway, kitchen and bedroom. Even bathroom when she bathed in their sweet, euphoric juices. Roses. Roses everywhere. Roses in vines, scattered. Roses in vases, purple and pink, with their stems entwined like a pair of lovers forever walking side by side.
There was always one lone white rose.
It was a good thing she never had company, or else they would tire of her sickly rose obsession. Light cherry roses tied into her lavender hair, spilling down her shoulders to the narrow base of her back where she wished she could be held. Naked rose petals swimming in her vision when she thought of how it must feel to have a flower cut from her very own breast.
Cotton flakes of snow fell the same as they always had. Except now she had the freedom to attempt and enjoy the weather. Frost bitten fingers and ears, she never bothered bundling up to go out into feet deep snow piles. Cloudy, aside from the chill, she could have almost pretended they were the footsteps on the way to heaven.
Snowmen were too complicated. But snow angels were simple. Compact snow made for a blanket she could twist and turn into a lovely embodiment of light. She hated angels. Perfect, selfless people who gave themselves for horrible witches. People who sacrificed everything to make someone happy. The person who left this world so that she could enjoy freedom. Stupid, blind girl who failed to realize that she could never enjoy anything without being with her now. Not her body, not heaven, not even her freedom.
None of her angels had halos.
Even the leaves fell the same. Crispy brown, and she blended right in when she lay down in their bed. Not as comfortable as roses, but more suiting for rebellious days where she could pretend she didn't give a damn. Days when the earth never turned on its axis. Days when she swore to herself she would wake up, and her set of eyes would not be the only one with thick sunlight shadows waking her up in the morning.
Freedom was a useless thing. There was nothing but grief painted on the walls of her heart. Four chambers for each season of loneliness. Grief, depression, sorrow and madness. Freedom at a price she never would dare to pay.
She saw the roses everywhere. Roses in her tea. Roses in her dreams. Roses crying for her, and everything serene.
Pink and purple roses, both blooming from different roots. Coupled in the vases, crying side by side.
Until she cut them from their stem, and crushed their blank exterior.
Colored roses everywhere, draping all the halls. Pink and purple side by side, drowning out her cries.
She kept them to remind her. She kept them to forget. She kept them so she could smile. And she kept them so she could cry. She stroked them, then watered them. And killed them all for glee. Skewing the lies they fed her, and what she could never be.
Though the lone white rose still went untouched.
Dangling from its noose on the bedroom wall.