Striped Roses
Form: Short Story
Approximate Length: 2,400 Words
Genre(s): Psychological, Mild Horror
Theme(s): Denial, Grief, Memory, Illusion vs. Reality, etc.
The nurse adjusts your blanket. It’s a beautiful day, and the flowers look striking through the frosted glass. White. Blue. Yellow. The brightest colours surround you.
Today’s breakfast is oatmeal and raspberries. Another white. You enjoy the vanilla yoghurt, but the raspberries leave a sour taste in your mouth, so you avoid them.
You survey the room as you eat. All the furniture has been pushed to one side of the room, and cupboards loom over you with half-opened drawers. The carpet is green, like moss on the oak floor, and the walls are a pastel sea blue. Your mother chose the colour. She loves the ocean, and she likes to sit in a big armchair, staring at the walls. Now the armchair is beside your bed, empty, and facing the door. Only a portrait remains on the other side of the room, smiling faintly.
You look out the window again as the nurse stacks trays of leftover food. Even as she returns to her sentinel position at the foot of your bed, you ignore her. The flowers beside her are also white, with long stems and large heads. You ask her what flower they are. Roses, she replies. Striped roses. You absentmindedly pull them from the vase, plucking them apart. They fall on the wooden floor, a contrast with white on red, and you stop.
—
The gardener comes out to work in the morning, every day at 6 o’clock. He drags his wheelbarrow, filled to the brim. There’s a white sheet over the top, so you can’t tell what’s inside, but you assume it's dirt. He tends to the flowers meticulously, digging new holes almost every day, then filling them up again.
[As the gardener walks beneath your window, something pale tumbles from his wheelbarrow. It rolls in the dirt twice before stopping. It’s oddly shaped, wrinkly, with five thin appendages. The appendages are curled up, reaching towards the sun. The gardener walks right past it, never stopping. He didn’t see it. It’s probably a plant, but you don’t look closely enough to tell.]
There are no fences in the garden, just many stumps. As the gardener stands gravely over the fields, you stare at him through the window, trying to decide whether his hair is black or brown. You give up, deciding it doesn’t matter, and he fades out of sight.
The nurse is still standing at the foot of the bed, waiting. You pass her by, running through the corridor. 1, 2, 3, 7 rooms flying by. The house is full of noise, glasses clinking and people laughing. Conversations are muffled through the walls, but you still catch a little.
“It’s so unfortunate, really. All very sad…”
“Yes, yes, how unfortunate…”
A familiar song broadcasts through the radio, followed by a tile commercial and some static. The sun is coming through the windows, but your feet feel cold as ice. You come to a stop at the 8th door, standing proudly at the end of the hall. It’s your mother’s room. You hesitate, as all children do, at disturbing this sacred space, before slowly opening the door. It protests, creaking loudly, sounding eerily similar to a raven.
You look. Left. Right. No one’s there. You continue searching for a moment, then turn around and leave, deciding she must be in the kitchen.
—
It’s summertime. There’s only a month or so until winter, but the cold feels far off. It’s always been hot during the summer, but this one takes the cake. If it weren’t for your insistence, the nurse probably wouldn’t have allowed you out today. She trails along behind you, and you look back every minute or so to make sure she’s still there. You didn’t want to be pushy today, but it felt right to get out of the house. Now that you are, you feel much better.
The gardener has disappeared already, and in his place is a smell, hard to place yet familiar. You ask the nurse what it is, and she mentions that they’re trying out some new fertiliser. Indeed, it was a damp smell, like rot or mould. You nod, already moving on to the flowers. Pale heads perch on delicate, bony stems, seemingly ready to snap at any moment. Birch trees stand tall, with smaller stumps up to your waist scattered around, grey with age. Many of the stumps have carvings, recognizable as letters yet illegible as words. You look at the flowers again, focusing on their pearly heads and canary petals. Behind you, ignored among vines of ivy, lies a crimson poppy, cut off at the stem.
You look away abruptly, your attention caught by the birds. You can’t see them, although you’d swear you had if someone were to ask. Only muffled chirps fly into your ears, muted by the dense foliage. Its keening, throaty scream fills your head, filling every inch between your ears. You frown. It’s a mourning cry. The nurse doesn’t seem to hear anything, staring blankly ahead with vacant, lifeless eyes, like a broken mannequin left out on display. A shadow comes over her, two wings spread wide, and for one terrible moment, you see a corpse glaring back at you. You blink and the bird is gone, leaving you and the nurse behind. The wailing grows sparser and fades away, until it was never there at all.
—
The next day, you slouch on the couch, bored out of your mind. It’s too hot to go outside, and it’s too late to start a movie. The nurse stands behind you, silent and solemn, like a cortege. Her body faces the windows, and you crane your neck to see what she’s looking at, only to turn away the next second. You can't see anything, just the garden. You flop back on the couch, no longer curious.
If your mother were to see you like this, she would’ve scolded you silly. Your mother hates bad posture. Always has. Always will. Reluctantly, you sit up straight, realising she could come out of her office at any moment. You wait, like a toddler in trouble. You keep waiting. 1, 2, 3 minutes pass, but the doors stay closed.
You give up, reaching for the remote. She’ll come out when she hears the television. Your fingers, long frozen from the cold, slip, pressing the volume to the max. The sound booms out of the speakers, chase scenes filling the screen. You don’t look back at the door, already hearing the squeak behind you. The nurse’s breathing stops at once, but you don’t see her, either.
The screen flickers, going black. The house is silent. You don’t look back.
—
You are barefoot. You wave your hands from side to side, skipping down the hall. Nothing behind you, nothing in front of you. You’re smiling. You don’t know why, but you are.
To your side is a wall of mirrors. You don’t see them, only looking ahead to the end of the hall. You can hear murmurs through the walls again. So unfortunate. How unfortunate. The nurse follows behind you, quiet and expressionless. She can’t hear them. The nurse never has.
You stop, and she stops. You move, and she moves. You look at the mirrors, and only she is reflected. Your eyes meet through the glass, and she lets out a smile, soulless black eyes staring back at you, as her face morphs into a grotesque grin. Maggots fall from the gaps between her teeth, squirming on their heads as they drop to the ground, gasping for air. Her ears and nose are also invaded, and they fall out one by one. A part of her forehead peels off, exposing bone. The skin on her cheeks cracks open, and you can see the maggots as they crawl up her throat, and squirm in her damp mouth, before finally crawling out into open air. The cartilage in her nose bursts open with a pop, exposing more bugs. At one point, she shifts out of focus, appearing and reappearing, melting into a portrait’s frame. You’ve seen this person before. Yellow hair like golden wheat, smiling sweetly with those cold, blue eyes. Her dress keeps changing, one moment white, the next, whiter. She’s drenched in white, like a wax statue. This thought is funny. You start laughing, short bursts at first, then stretching into a longer sound that almost resembles a scream. You cover your mouth with your hand, trying to stop the sound. It’s not polite to laugh at people, your mother said. But why are your hands shaking?
She’s still smiling. Still smiling with that rotten, empty grin.
You blink, smiling, and the mirror is gone. You look behind at the nurse, cheerful, and ask when dinner is going to be ready. She answers, in a slightly hoarse voice, that it is already at the table.
You don’t acknowledge this, and when the nurse is out of sight, she looks back into the room, staring at the dark with a desperate longing, as the mirrors disappear one by one.
You skip to the 14th door, the one at the end of the hall, and open it slightly to see a chicken roast, cooked to perfection, on the table. There are 4 chairs, but they’re all empty. You keep your head down as you sit, directly to the right of your mother. She is tapping away at her computer, but you can’t hear the keys. Your back is straight, right up against the seat behind you. Scooping up some rice and roasted duck from the platter onto your mother’s plate, you encourage her to eat. She doesn’t respond, and you eat your dinner in silence, focusing on the delicious congee.
You wonder what you’ll do tomorrow. Today feels far too long, and you can’t wait for the promised warm weather. At first, you think of going to the beach, but immediately reject the idea. Your mother hates the beach. Always will.
—
You’re staring at the floor, standing in the middle of your room. The tiles are an alabaster white, and they’ve been sparkling since the nurse cleaned the house. The furniture is still pressed to one side of the room, and the drawers seem to shrink slightly under a glare from the other side. You ignore her gaze, still for a moment.
Winter was freezing this year, and your fingers are turning numb. You’ve been through many harsh seasons, but this one would take the cake.
You plunge into bed, and it rolls around slightly before the wheels stabilise. Beneath you is a woollen blanket, and you bury your head in it, trying to chase away the cold.
Your head turns slightly to look out the window. The window is made from clear glass, so you can see the garden well enough. The grass is a fluorescent green, bright under the moonlight. You wait for a while, until the gardener comes out to make his rounds again, with the same wheelbarrow and white sheet. You cup your cheeks in your hands, revelling in the warmth, and your smile widens. His hair is a clean blonde, and it doesn’t match his stained clothing. The stains are white, and you wonder if he’s been painting the fence.
A beeping sound startles you, and you look around for a while, unable to see where it's coming from. It’s an alarm clock. You’ve never seen it before, since the nurse always woke you up, but you don’t hesitate, fingers slipping as you try to turn it off.
Absentminded, you watch as the gardener digs his holes. Normally, you’d be in bed by now, but the nurse is running late with the milk tonight. He’s finished shovelling dirt, and pulls out a stone with both hands. It’s dark, so you can’t see much, only a vague, semicircular outline. He places it on the edge of his hole, adjusting it to line up with the others. It’s only now that you realise the stones look like stumps, and you freeze, smile turning stiff. Blinking once, and the white stains turn red. Blinking twice, and you notice that the wheelbarrow is a rusty scarlet.
You turn your back to the window, facing the door again. The nurse is still missing, and the door is not white. You’re no longer smiling, and the smell of antiseptic enters your nose. The floor is white, the walls are white, and the beeping is back, but you know it’s not an alarm clock.
Unbidden, your eyes inevitably land on that dreadful portrait. The once bright face is now colourless, and you don’t dare to look her in the eyes. Somehow, you know; there are maggots behind those eyes.
The gardener is gone, his precious flowers buried under banks of snow, long dead. Only one small, red poppy lies untouched among lines of cold, stone mounds.
The door creaks open, and in comes the nurse. She smiles at you, and you turn to her, filled with dread. Her feet are light and airy, but her eyes burn with vigour. You’re not sure if it’s intentional, but her head blocks the portrait, removing its oppressive gaze.
She hands you the milk. It’s warm, and your fingers tingle as it chases away the cold. Your eyes become dull, and the corners of your mouth pull up again.
“Drink,” the nurse commands, still smiling, an air of triumph about her. Her eyes bear down on you, blithe and condemning, assured that you’ll drink. After all, you always do. She knows it, and you know it too.
You drink with one hand, looking over to the desk by your bed. On it is a striped rose. It’s red. Too red. The red is everywhere. You begin scratching your arms, chasing the red, but it only seems to multiply. You can’t get it off. It won’t come off. You look to the rose again. So white. So red. You crush it between your fingers, and a viscous, cream-coloured liquid flows to your elbow. At first, you thought it came from the flower. Then, feeling no pain, you realise it comes from the thorns digging into your skin.
You smile, surrounded by colours. White, blue, and yellow.