Page 7 of Threads Of Madly Whispers

Mama was right, the devil does burn everything he touches.

Chapter 4

Wild Rose

Between the Living and the Dead

The acerbic smell of antiseptic torrents my nose, as well as a metallic tang, with a hint of peppermint and lavender from the flowers I set up on the side table in a vase. They make the bleached scent less stout to breathe in, however, the gun-metal gray walls to match the insipidity of this place make a bilious feel rack up my nerves.

This place saps the life out of you, and when I walked in through its doors, it felt forlorn. It felt as if you were chained behind these walls, like you had no one but yourself to fend for. Yes,sure, the doctors, nurses and even the priests that walk the halls with either patterned scrubs, bibles or clipboards might have beenaroundyou, but they weren’twithyou.

They do not get to familiarize themselves with your misery and torment, your feebleness, because unlike you, they get to walk out beyond those gates, they get to see the sun and stars. They get to live while you crumble in here.

On most days it’s usually quiet, but at times, pain-filled screeches and wails bleed into the room, and moments like those tend to drag my feet to the burnt coffee and pallid food-filled vending machines. It’s a distraction from staring at thosefuckinggray walls and hearing the clock ticking. Silence has never been more unendurable.

TheSanatoriumis small, with its structure hidden behind a timberline of trees and forestry. Most might never know of its existence, including myself, had a nurse from the public hospital not told me about it. I remember the day so vividly, like a cliche chanted by stereotypes.

“Listen, there’s somewhere for her to go, a place where they will take care of her. Not many have heard of it, but my sister works there and I can get you the address. The doctor you want to talk to goes by the name Whitmore.”

Her eyes were filled with so much heartache for me.

I was desperate.

My carmine nails drag over the cold metal bed rail as my gaze swivels over her. Auburn hair, woven with gold and ruby lights unlike mine, spreads over the soft pillow her head rests on. I reach to feel her silky strands but quickly pull my hand back. She looks like a corpse,dead.

I was desperate.

All it takes is a moment for the devil’s work to flourish, and at times, it takes even seconds. My trail of misfortune took seven.

Every Sunday, I step into this place, and minutes turn to hours while I stare at her, while I wait. The first couple of days, all I did was cry until my eyes flamed scarlet and my face grew puffy. Until the wells in my eyes dried and my throat ached for air. But now I just stare and wait with splinters of my heart lodged in the pockets of my hands.

Her lifelessness is like a cheval glass to my soul, and all that’s left is dust.

“I visited Papa—” my nails dig into my palm, it distracts the heaviness that settles in my heart.

“—I removed the old flowers, and placed some roses,” my empty laugh fills the room. “I know how much you loved roses, he hated them though, said they got bad too quickly.” A ghost of a smile forms on my lips. I blink a couple of times to push back the memory that wants to claw its way out. A memory that stings and reminds me of what I no longer have.

I was desperate.

The ticking clock serves as a reminder of my time coming to an end, and so does the darkness that shadows outside through the window.

I used to tell her about my days, but now I settle on telling her about my visits to Papa’s tombstone. I mean, what else could I possibly tell her? That most days I cover up bruises or that fear has become a constant friend of mine? Or maybe that I can not run away because I cannot leave her. She probably does not hear me, but I can never bring myself to say any of it aloud.

I stand from the chair I have been nestling myself on since morning. Then I grab my bag from the side arm and kiss her forehead goodbye.

“I was desperate, Mama, desperate to hide you from him, desperate to keep what little of you I still have, and I make no apologies for it,” I whisper, and I am met with the sounds of her breathing machine.

Another glance at the window leads me out of theSanatorium.

The thought of going home lingers, an early night to reclaim the sleep I’ve lost, but my body rebels. It itches,pulses with a desperate need to escape the tension that has woven itself into my very bones and frayed my sanity. A tension that begs to be released. The rain, threatening to shatter the sky, does little to sway my resolve. Under the sepia glow of silver-black clouds, my legs carry me toward the graveyard I’ve grown to know, where I am slowly, unwillingly becoming less a stranger in my skin.

It’s erroneous to be here, to sneak in behind these gated burial grounds, to be a thief in the night with only a conquest to show my talent and not to steal. It’s the audience that speaks to me, covets me even, and it’s the audience I gladly allow to see me unveil. Lightning strikes send heaven’s light through the stormy clouds and my response to its fury is dancing to the roar of its drum. Who needs music, when the storm is my opera, and when the rain becomes my instrument.

I do not see what lies beyond these graveyards, for a wall of roses stands like a sentinel, concealing all. For all I know, this ancient land could be cursed, steeped in secrets darker than any I wish to unearth. Yet my defiance runs deeper than my curiosity, and I care little for what lies hidden. My only desire is to be swallowed by this place, to sink into its silence and allow it to consume me whole.

The air here is dripping with a kind of darkness, a heavy cloak I can wield at my discretion, a pen I control with ruthless mastery. It is the only thing left that I can govern, the only thing in which I can rule with absolute power.Ballet.

As I jump over the cemetery fence, the rain bursts forth from the sky, and I let it soak me completely. I let it drench me, embrace me with its wild freedom, for it feels like being unshackled in a world so bound. The cemetery, with its discolored graves, shattered tombstones, and ashen air, is a haunting beauté. A few ceramic figures encircle me, somecracked and broken, others new and meticulously placed, yet they too seem as weary as the land they inhabit.

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