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The Clearing

“One last gift. From a friend.”

By Matt MianiPublished 6 years ago 7 min read
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The cherry blossoms fell gently, floating on the breeze. They swirled around on the eddies that whipped to and fro, sending the tiny petals tumbling about the clearing. One fell on an upturned palm, worn with age and scarred by life. Long fingers picked it up gently, and it rose to the view of a weary face. The simple beauty of this new life did nothing to ease the lines on it; rather, the creases deepened, and bloodshot eyes began to water. The blossom trembled as the long white digits shook. They released it, and the petals once more drifted lazily. But the breeze faded away, and the little flower fell, spiraling ever further down. It came to rest on a simple gray stone. Regular, smooth, and polished, this was not the work of Mother Nature. It had been carved by the eyes that now came to rest on an inscription. It read,

Emma Floare

“The Lady of the Blossoms”

1957-2010

May you forever tread through the fallen blossoms of heaven

He stood but two steps’ distance from the cold stone. The blossoms still fell from the branches above him, and they came to rest in a circle around the two. After some time, he found his voice. “This was where we first met, you know. We were fifteen.” His voice trembled, and the silent grave made no reply. “This was where you cried. Every day, I could see you for a few ` when the trees opened up from the windows of the bus. I was the only one who cared. So one day, I didn’t take the bus.” He fought back a sob, and swallowed a lump in his throat. “I had everything planned out. I would bring you a picnic basket, the kind you only see in the movies. I didn’t know what you liked, so I just brought everything I could think of. I was still too scared to talk to you, so I just left it in the clearing with a note, saying that it came from a friend. The next day, I went back to get it. And inside I found flowers. All shapes and sizes. Arranged delicately, like a painting in real life. Sitting on top of the petals was a note: "A gift. From a friend.” He closed his eyes, and let out a long breath into the still air. It felt as though the forest itself was holding its breath, waiting to see what would happen under its leaves. Not a creature moved, for fear of breaking the fragile, tranquility that hung about the clearing like a fine mist, almost tangible. A heavy silence that every being from the meanest mouse to the proudest hawk knew was not to be broken.

Finally, he spoke again. “And so it began. We sent each other messages, gifts. And we began to know each other. We never spoke, but we knew each other’s thoughts. We felt every little pain, shared the brunt of every cruel word. And slowly, you stopped crying. I could still see you from the windows of the bus. And sometimes, we would stop for traffic, or a red light queue, and then you could see me too. From the moment our eyes locked, you knew it was me. Somehow, you could feel it in your heart, the love I had for you, the crying girl who gave me flowers in return for kindness.” A single tear rolled down his weathered face, leaving a glistening trail. “When we agreed to meet, it was the only thing I could think of all week. And from the first day we sat in the clearing together, watching the wind whisper through the trees and sharing the sweet taste of life, I was happy. For the first time in my life, I was at peace. I didn’t have to keep a constant eye out for feet stuck out to trip me on the bus or in the hall. The acid words that once stabbed and burned now deflected off an invisible armor. I was happy.” The tears flowed freely now, as the buried memories came roaring back with a vengeance. The wind started to blow once more, rustling the blossoms and tumbling them about his feet, swirling in a cyclone of tear-stained pink. Now they were tears of rage, and he shouted at the darkening sky, “I was happy! I had everything I wanted, and for fifty years it stayed that way!” Thunder crashed, a sound like a celestial firing squad. Black clouds rolled across the azure sky, and lightning flashed in the distance; silver forks crackling with energy. He paid them no mind, continuing his onslaught against the heavens, dropping his voice to a low tone that quivered with hate. “But then you sent them. They came on a dark night, the one night I was late. By the time I reached her, it was too late. All that was left were her bones, bleached white against the ashes.” The stony, threatening sky continued to boil above him, indifferent. “I couldn’t save her,” he said, turning his gaze down to earth. “I never found out who did it. I never even saw them, just their wake. Their trail of death.”

The lightning flashed, striking the ground some distance away in the forest. Brief white, then blazing orange and red against the black sky and the pink blossoms. A tapestry of extinction as the trees flared like torches. He stood impassive as another strike landed in the grove, closer now to the clearing. It lit the Stygian night like day, illuminating his form as he looked with hate at the thunderheads. His voice rose to newfound volume as his smoldering fury ignited into infernal rage, “I lost everything because of you! You sent them, and took what I had, what I loved! What did I DO? What was so wrong with me that you took everything?” Now he screamed at the black empyrean, his arms held up, his hands in clenched fists. “WHY DID YOU TAKE HER? WHY DIDN’T YOU TAKE ME INSTEAD? SHE WAS EVERYTHING TO ME!” His howls faded into sobs, and he collapsed onto his knees, racked by despair, the teardrops falling into the dust of the clearing. His hands were in the dirt, his palms up. As if in concert, the inferno roared to make itself known as the trees began to fall, their leaves bursting into flame. He could feel the heat on his back, breathed the searing air, saw the blossoms ignite and be consumed by crimson fire.

His skin started to scorch as the thunder crashed like a cannon, and the very earth seemed to tremble. He raised his head to the sky one final time, and let loose a soul-tearing scream, anguished and tortured, every nuance of it crying out in broken, agonized suffering. His very life seemed to break free as he screamed out his being, to tell the world of his grief, of the gaping chasm in his soul. His voice broke, and he bowed his head as the hellish flames drew ever nearer. A flash of movement caught his eye; a blossom, floating gently down to the dirt in front of his kneeling form, landing delicately in between the teardrops. It seemed to awaken something in him, and he reached into the pocket of his coat, grasping a cold metal grip as he drew out a gleaming revolver. His eyes focused on the blossom, oblivious of the infernal fire that now encircled the clearing; none of the trees that they had so loved together still remained, only fire and ash. Long fingers picked it up gently, and it rose to the view of a weary face, worn with age, scarred by life. Bloodshot eyes began to water as trembling fingers pulled back the hammer of the revolver, moving it into place with an inexorable metallic thud. Nimble fingers softly laid down the fragile blossom, putting it on top of a note drawn from another pocket. A pockmarked hand slowly, dreadfully moved the revolver into place, the cold metal barrel cutting into the soft flesh under his chin. His eyes brimmed over with tears, equal parts rage and grief. Suddenly, he smiled as the tears rolled down his face once more, and he whispered in a broken voice, “Don’t worry, my Lady. I’m coming to join you.” He closed his eyes and smiled, raising his head in defiance to the black sky. His long finger squeezed the trigger, and with a bang louder than the thunder, he was no more: the note and the blossom were stained with crimson. His limp body fell forwards, his other arm stretching towards the tombstone as the hot winds blew with newfound force, whisking blossom and note away into the raging flames. And as the note blew, its message could be seen, if only for a second:

“One last gift. From a friend.”

grief
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