Not Blood

I plastered all these beautiful pictures of red roses and violet violets around the formerly whiteboard. One dangling lightbulb hung above this mostly empty basement, but I was working on something I’d show my family and best friend in five, maybe ten, years. 

You say you want to complete your bucket list, but you’re always looking at that collage.

Soon, the mentality of voices droned on, soon washing away like leaves in a rushing water of a raging waterfall. Soon, I didn’t recall as I pressed my brown hands against a picture of a suave man on a red carpet, his hair sprayed hair sticking up fancifully to enforce his good looks. A beautiful woman stood on the next picture, her glistening midnight blue dress swayed around her.

I stood back, smiling.

“What are you staring at me for?”

I jumped. One of the pictures talked.

“Where are you?”

“Don’t panic. Over here.”

I jerked my head over to a man in all rose pink and white, pink blush on sharp cheek bones, and golden eyes.

“Who are you?”

His hair flickered, like flames. Suddenly, voices called out to me. “Don’t trust him. He’s a fool. Don’t trust him.”

The man in rose pink and white stood in front of a white backdrop invited me. “Don’t be afraid! I’m just—”

“No!” One of the women in a jaguar print dress waved frantically, and then another black man with a cobalt blue tuxedo and black shirt gestured that I should have nothing to do with him. “That’s why he wears white. To—”

“Oh, you guys!” The guy chuckled. I kept shifting my eyes over to him, but everyone else kept ordering me away. I squeezed my eyes shut. I gravitated to him. He seemed so warm, friendly and inviting. What was so wrong?

I was eager. “I want to prove to my doubting friends I am interested. I just need to complete this collage—”

“What?!” The other voices interrupted.

“Yes.” He locked eyes on me, and I listened as he advised me on becoming a fashion designer. I fantasized about standing before heads of fashion companies, their jaws on the floor and eyebrows up and their eyes wide in admiration. Jealousy pulsed through them like electricity does through telephone wires. A wide grin, I felt as I blinked, had spread across my face.

“Wow!” I couldn’t wait to start. “How can I?”

“All you have to do is—”

“Shush!”

“Don’t!”

“He’s lying to you!”

“What?” I spat at these other people, them pounding on their own pictures, unable to get out. I shook my head, returning to such a beautiful man. He again locked eyes with me.

“Do you want to know more?” He sat this time.

I locked eyes on him, his golden eyes right on my soft brown ones.

“So, you want to be a fashion designer?”

I bobbed my head.

“You seem so ready. Here—”

I hopped into his world, ready to breathe in the new ideas. “Hold on—” I whizzed around, telling him I was listening as I grabbed a pad and pen, jotting down notes. Returning, I told him to continue.

“Step one: Avoid your friends and these other characters about me—they’re annoying. They’ll doubt you. Two: don’t take anyone’s advice. You’ll know once you’re making your own clothes that you’re the best.”

“Okay!” I scribbled this step.

“Step three—don’t ask for advice or help. You don’t want to be mocked.”

As he saw me write these down, he advised. Finally, with fifteen steps, I shut the notebook, clenching my fists and shaking my head. “Wow—mister, if you hadn’t been here, I don’t know what I would do. I… I…” Excitement pulsated through me—like electricity through a telephone pole.

“The only thing you’re doing now is…go!”

“But—”

“Hurry, before the offer ends soon!”

“See ya!”

I hurried through life, my tie-dye tie swiped for a suave tie. My boring button-down shirt replaced with a vibrant color overlaid with a fine jacket. Shoes? Those were shined.

I married a woman.

“Making dreams come true!”

She saw my collage, but then stared awestruck as the characters interacted with her. They introduced her to her talking pet animals (exotic animals from jungles, Sahara desert and tropical islands), taking her on a journey inside their worlds. Guiding her through those worlds, she came back with unbelievable stories. She said she blinked back tears when she went to bed at night, watching me hum my next suit on the next morning. She forced a smile in every photo, and when we posed on the red carpet every other week, she excused herself to be sick.

“I promised Daddy I’d marry a caring man. A loving, loved man. I don’t love you.”

“What do you need me to do? Isn’t this great? I look so good!”

“Handsome. But not loving. To your wife!”

“How handsome do I need to be to be your husband?”

“Just love me. You can’t wear love. Except when you’re are it.”

I looked at her. She avoided the basement as far as I could tell. Then one day, she came upstairs with a red dress on. Standing there in the doorframe, she asked whether she was beautiful. I turned, smiling and nodding. “Yes,” I continued buttoning my silk shirt and brown jacket. “Yes.” But my head was down, my eyes on my clothes.

“Baby!” The word was a huge boom. I nearly fell to the floor.

“Yes?!” I whirled around. But she shook her head.

“Didn’t do that!”

Then I rushed downstairs. The suave fashion designer sitting on the modeling chair looked at me. His intense look made me swallow. Then I squeaked, “Did you do that?”

“Isn’t she that? Then impress her!”

I looked down at his hands. They were perfectly positioned, but I crinkled my face. “What? Is it hot in here?”

He got up. “No!” He invited me into the world, but I declined. I went upstairs. My wife walked away from me, I heard. I jumped into bed—the time was late. I had to get up early for the photoshoot!

Walking downstairs when her husband wasn’t home, she stood in front of the collage, my wife asked who would be the one to help her husband see that she wasn’t just an article of clothing. That she mattered to this world, and especially to him. She went upstairs and made a cup of tea. Placing it at my desk, she said, “Hon. When are you going to look at me?”

Then she went downstairs, slipped into one of the worlds, and wore fanciful clothes. Twirling around, she smiled for the photos, admiring her new attire. Hours it seemed. She stepped away and tried reaching me, all in the world. I didn’t pick up. Days shapeshifted into weeks. Weeks vanished into years. A knock on the door.

She flew up the stairs after jumping out of the world and twisted that doorknob. “Yes?” In her excitement, she forgot the wall beside her. The door banged against the wall. “Yes?” She stared at the UPS driver.

“Package—for you, ma’am.”

“Where’s my husband?”

“He’s…” The man looked with dull eyes at his electronic sign pad. “Uh…I don’t know.”

“Well, he’s gotta come back. We’re married.”

The man peered at the cardboard box in my wife’s hands. “Uh—”

“He’s not in here, doofus!” She thwacked him across the head.

He reacted instantly. Like a whipped puppy, the UPS driver hurried away after beeping it and then drove away. A scared man. A coward.

Narrowed eyes were cut short by the front door, which closed absentmindedly as my wife looked at the package before her. It was addressed to her. She clawed it open, long nails beautiful abused. Finally, she withdrew a long shirt with buttons down the front. A midnight blue shirt with pearl white buttons.

She got some logs, a lighter and the shirt. Stepping back after her logs blazed with orange, red and yellow heat, her eyes glowed with the fire’s intensity of watching such midnight blue and pearl white become complete ash black. She bit her lip. Where is he? Then shrugging, she went downstairs and stepped into the world of fashion, all thoughts of her husband fleeing away.

Washed away like dirt and sweat after a shower is taken.

The husband came home. Calling to his wife, he received nothing. He finally went downstairs after searching the whole house. He looked around, not seeing the collage. “Honey?” He looked at each of the pictures, all of the characters looking firmly at the man. Then the man looked at the elegantly clad man in the rose pink and white tuxedo. “Where is she?” He questioned innocently.

“Take your wife to your mansion.”

“Why?”

“She’s into fashion, too!”

Her husband did. They enjoyed each other—and themselves. But the mansion needed to own a yacht, a pool, sport courts, a movie theatre and a whole golf club. The clothes added shapes and decorations, them selling for millions and the selling going beyond well. Soon, limousines, footmen and maids adorned the mansions’ rooms, glass and china and pottery idolizing the counters, floors, desks and night tables and dressers. Both couples smiled at each other, showing each other what each other has done. They would celebrate each other’s successes, always elaborating on each other’s own successes.

Congratulating each other filled the room in which they conversed like snow filled a yard when it was cold outside. When they didn’t want to talk to each other, walls of photographers, desperate fans and other adorning people strived to even shake their hands. They had time to say hello, and they even went so far as to take photos with these mad people. They were busybodies.

Their bed was never shared. They never faced each other when sleeping in the same bed. They always faced the other way, talking about how each other complimented themselves. They always discussed what each other would do for themselves. They went out of their way to show the other person off. Their grin was wide—for themselves.

When they weren’t in the spotlight, they each took turns into the collage life. Soon, people all over the world heard of this collage. Soon, their eyes, green, and their faces, white, were the laughter of this couple. Too bad, they mocked as they lavished on delicacies in both worlds. Literally, they got the best of both worlds.

The couple was photographed even while brushing their teeth. In the bathroom, in the garage, in the family room and in the bedroom. The car couldn’t go—so many people’s feet were the bumpers halting such a Mercedes Benz. Such a flock of people only bulged like a fat man’s stomach when he eats too much sugar, swelling onto the lawn and around the house and encircling such a place. The people populated the neighbors’ lawns, but the written complaints were burned in the couple’s nightly bonfires.

Soon, the people were only pleased and finally left the couple alone when they had their photographs taken, autographs and hands shaken. The cringe-faced couple waved, plastic smiles on their faces as they slipped inside the limousine. The people’s hands flopped back and forth, but the couple focused on each other.

“So how much money did you make?”

“Those clothes…where you’d get them?”

“Please—tell me about your new watch! Who was the designer again?”

The limousine really struggled to get out of the driveway of the house’s driveway. People were rounded like cattle by cowboys as they surged forward. The couple pulled away from them, their necks long and their heads bent. They looked at each other, stared at each other, silent conversation. The couple disappeared as the crying, sobbing, dashing fans all threw books and hands and screams out to them. They poured out into the streets, ignoring the honks and yells of the taxis and other cars screeching to a halt and being halted by police.

“Get back!” Someone ordered.

The loud crowd thronged. That person walked in amongst them all, they all craning their necks to see the couple being driven away. Once one person saw and then couldn’t look away from the eyes of the man, another person quieted. And another. Soon, one by one, the crowd’s idolatry died. Slowly, the crowd followed, as if a magnet, this man. He led them into the house, the house thought to smartly grow at the sheer size of these throngs. Anyway, he led them down the stairs, and told them to go into these pictures. The people here, he nodded his head, would lead you to this couple. You just have to wait and then you’ll see them.

Once the crowd was sucked into the pictures (whichever ones they wanted to go into), the man took his patiently crossed hands out from his back, slipped off his gloves to expose blood dripping from those black claws and quietly slipped into his own picture. Drawing on the portrait behind him pictures of hearts and roses and writing quotes of love and affirmation and admiration and faithfulness, he turned around, posing as before an obedient, patient man. Quiet.

Seeing the man from before with a tired T-shirt and ugly jeans, he waited for the man to say something. “Um…I’m a fashion designer!” He jumped up. His wife appeared, too. They looked at the pictures. Excitement sizzled between them, them gabbing about their expensive lifestyles.

Turning to each other, they went on and on about how they admired each other’s own stuff. Soon, newspapers reported theft about this couple’s life. Hatred seeped into their lives. Selfishness rang true. They still talked about each other, but leaned back like the other person was pointing at them. The husband always jabbed a thumb at himself. She always waved a hand at herself.

“How’s your husband?”

“Oh! Knows all about me!”

“How’s your wife?”

“Oh? Always admiring my stuff!”

“Do you ever enjoy each other’s company?”

“As long as we’re complimenting each other. It makes us feel better about ourselves. The last time I was with him, he couldn’t help admiring my dress, my necklace, my lipstick, smelling my perfume and playing with my curls. It was like the lights’ light embraced me!”

“The last time I was with my wife was when she always pointed out how glamorous my watch looked. How shiny it was! And I pointed out whether others noticed—my watch! Don’t you agree? I would ask fans screaming for my autograph. I would sign it, saying your welcome and please, don’t mention it! My watch would not only glisten in the sun, but it would also glisten in the fake lights shining down on me. I would always wear it—my wife would never miss it. I don’t know why—she seems less interested in my stuff than I, but at least I know what I’m wearing. It’s like she needs to be more interested—be more…loving and supportive.”

“Why don’t you ever compliment your wife—for real?”

“Why doesn’t your husband really enjoy your company?”

“How’d you like a loving, beautiful marriage?”

“Please, tell us, you’re a couple who couldn’t part.”

The man turned, looking at a sky-blue and pearl white man dressed to the nines in this such tuxedo. He looked down, blinking. Sad.

“What’s wrong?” The man demanded. “How’s the world in which you’re living?”

He didn’t answer. The husband ignored his every question, dodging every sharp turn of a retort. He went the other way when the man told him to go this way. He didn’t feel he needed someone else. Already his wife adored him. He was all set.

If he lay awake at night, he asked her how he would do the next day. And his wife would always remind him how great a day she would have every morning as they stood in their bathroom suite bathroom.

“If it weren’t for me, I wouldn’t be happy!”

“If it weren’t for me, I would be sorry!”

They inwardly loathed asking for each other’s help. When they were together, they bickered and fought horribly, vowing never to see each other again. Two mansions were owned by this separated couple. When they did see each other, they instantly shot their eyes down at their own article of clothing or watch or expensive shoes. Nothing was genuine. Everything circled around them like their jackets and shoes hugged their bodies and feet.

People started to consume this couple’s life—they hated the spotlight, yet they didn’t want each other. They hated being together. They fought their temptation to be fake, tired of being fake to the public. They saw each other’s real selves, clinging to those perfections. When they saw each other, they talked. They promised to stay true.

Genuine conversation filled the meals, bedtimes, kitchen, bathroom and car rides.

The man in sky-blue and pearl white went to the golden-eyed man in rose pink. He said he doesn’t write in blood—bloody red covering the darkroom. The man in rose pink opened his mouth, a bloody-red maw with a black forked tongue. His eyes went coal black. Blood leaked down the paintings he had painted. Words leaked blood. 

“Blood?” He shook his head. “Not true blood.”

“It’s still blood!” The man screamed.

“Not real blood.”

The man squinted his eyes and then posed his usual sitting pose. He sat there a long time. Finally, the adorning throng invited themselves. He converted them. Alas, they were told by the husband that they were wrong. But no lies told by this rose pink man were divorced. The man and his wife, for once in their lives, held hands ever since their wedding day.

They kissed.

Looking at each other, their eyes shone with love.

Years of ugly garments burned black in the fire.

The garments of the heart.