Katie Allen: Decomposition

Decomposition

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Roses.

Roses.

Roses erupt.

Roses. Brother, erupt.

Only roses, brother. Well-loved, erupt.

Only roses. The brother. Well-loved, goose bumps erupt.

Only at night. Roses; the summer. The brother is well-loved. Goose bumps erupt.

Only at night – roses. The summer, the brother. Watching the girl. She is well-loved. Goose bumps erupt. Her eyes open, limpid.

Only at night. The roses, the summer. The brother watching the girl. She is beautiful, well-loved, quiet. Goose bumps erupt. Anything to preserve a moment – her eyes open after a while. Limpid, he thinks.

Only really noticeable at night, the roses. The summer on the patio. The brother, drumming his fingers, watching the girl. She is beautiful, well-loved, quiet. It is morning. Goose bumps erupt on the man’s arms. Anything to preserve a moment – her eyes open after a while, as ever. Limpid, he thinks of their shared nights.

The orchids – a luminescence, only really noticeable at night. A week later, all the roses. In the house, the summer. On the patio, the brother, drumming his fingers, watching the girl. She is beautiful, well-loved. Those slender fingers. Quiet. It is early morning. She reminds him that he knows. The girl falls. Goose bumps erupt on the man’s arms. She drifts. Anything to preserve a moment – her eyes open after a while. He watches (as ever, he thinks). Limpid, he thinks of their shared nights. Later, he found roses.

One evening, the orchids acquired a luminescence, only really noticeable at night. Then, a week later, all the roses. They had been in the house. The summer on the patio. The brother, drumming his fingers, watching the girl. She is beautiful, certainly. One can only assume well-loved. Those slender fingers. He considers making a statement, but keeps quiet. It is early morning. She reminds him, in that house surrounded by roses: he is a bad hand of cards to be dealt to anyone. He knows it. Inevitably, the girl falls. Goose bumps erupt on the man’s arms. She drifts. Resurface. Anything to preserve a moment – her eyes open after a while. He watches (as ever, he thinks, in self-disgust). Limpid, he thinks again of that other girl, of their shared nights. He had dissuaded her – successfully, he’d thought. Later, he had found rotting roses.

It began one evening when the orchids in the conservatory acquired a luminescence, only really noticeable at night. Then, a week later, all the roses. The next day they had grown back, all of them much larger. They had been previously in the house. Signs started appearing on doors. The summer on the patio. The brother, drumming his fingers, watching the girl on the diving board. She is beautiful, certainly. One can only assume well-loved, with humiliated hearts dripping from those slender fingers. He considers making a statement, but keeps quiet. It is early morning. She reminds him of the other girl, back in that house surrounded by roses. He is a bad hand of cards to be dealt to anyone, now. He knows it, so do they. Inevitably, the girl falls from the ledge. Goose bumps erupt on the man’s arms. She drifts, making no move to resurface. Anything to preserve a moment – her eyes open after a while. He watches (as ever, he thinks, in self-disgust) from the sidelines. He could leap in after her, haul her towards the shallow end like a disappointing catch. But he does not. He knows she will not. The oxygen in her lungs. Limpid, he thinks again of that other girl, of their shared nights. He had dissuaded her – successfully, he’d thought. Foolish. Two days later he had found rotting roses, the colour of rust.

It began one evening when the orchids in the conservatory acquired a pallid luminescence, only really noticeable at night. Then, a week later, all the roses died. The next day they had grown back, all of them sickly white and much larger than they had been previously. In the house, signs started appearing on doors that hadn’t been there before. Not the signs, not the doors. The summer guests grew nervous, and increasingly, lost. On the patio, the brother sipped tea and watched events flower open, drumming his fingers as he does now, watching the girl on the diving board. She is beautiful, certainly. One can only assume that she is well-loved, with more than her fair share of humiliated hearts dripping from those slender fingers. The white of her swimming costume makes a statement against the turquoise tiles. He considers making a statement himself, but keeps quiet. It is early morning. She reminds him of the other girl he tried to save all those years ago, back in that house surrounded by roses, back when he was a different person. A better person, most would agree. He is a bad hand of cards to be dealt to anyone, now. He knows it, so do they. Inevitably, the girl falls from the ledge. As she plunges into the chilled water, goose bumps erupt on the man’s arms. She drifts along the bottom, making no move to resurface. Does chlorine do anything to preserve corpses? he wonders for a moment. Will she die with her eyes open? Will the chlorine dissolve them after a while? He watches (as ever, he thinks, in self-disgust) from the sidelines. He could leap in after her, haul her towards the shallow end like a disappointing catch. But he does not. He knows she will not die this way. The oxygen in her lungs refuses such limpid suicide. He thinks again of that other girl, of their shared cups of tea on the patio, of their shared nights. The horrors of that house coming between them, her escalating despair. The cyanide attempt. Just her cup, of course. He had dissuaded her – successfully, he’d thought. Foolish. Two days later he had found her rotting among the new roses, her eyes the colour of rust.