Scarlet Oasis

The whole city was asleep except for the annoying clatter of the crickets and the stars were scattered across the sky to witness the thoughts rooted deep in the curves of my mind. They were pouring out of my lips in smoke, pressuring my temples to scream the hatred and low self-esteem that I was destined to run away but never leave behind. I stormed out of the home, and I knew I was ready to take the blow of thick night on my chest. 

You were sitting on the half-collapsed garden wall; the petals of white roses rested on your tangled hair like midnight nymphs. You were holding a napkin half covered in blood between your trembling fingers, and I could watch the journey of blood gushing out of your nose to your upper lip in its all transparency. I was ready to walk past you as I always do because I feared that you would see me, but then you moaned, and it was the most fervent dream of a raptured soul. 

“Are you okay?” I asked. It was more of a conventional courtesy than a genuine question. I wanted to leave. I wanted to wrap myself around the shadows and disappear. 

“No,” you replied. You did not raise your head up; the most insidious tones of pain blurred your face. Silence incarnated into a crooked body and stood between us. I turned to you abruptly and grabbed your shoulders. The palms of my hands sizzled with the sudden shock. You peered at me. I saw my own face flickering in your pupils next to the orange light. 

“Do you need any help?” 

“Just take me home, please.” 

The greatness of a forsaken life in your voice that resembled shreds of glass cut me deep. I did not know if you said it sincerely, maybe you wanted me to go too. Of course, it was impossible for me to know, but you see, I have a way to torture myself with the rusty spears of internalized doubt. I gently held your arm. I was so small beside you that it was as if you were taking me home. I asked if your house was nearby. You sighed with despair and said yes. We were trying to walk on imaginary lines, but you were floating inside such a big hollow that we were reeling. For once you peeked at me curiously, then turned away. I wondered if you saw a piece of yourself, high on its own destruction. Dried blood marks on your cheek reminded me of the lines of fate and I wanted to believe they tied me to you.

I tainted the silence for it was too violent. “It is so cold tonight. Normally I don’t mind, but for some reason I’m freezing now.” Your lips moved and I noticed a smile blooming at the edges. “Yeah, I am freezing too, but we will warm up in a second.” A scarlet oasis emerged at the point where the blood filled your teeth, and I wanted to rest there until I got carried away. We kept on walking for a while, I let you drag me to the places that you clearly did not know. And we talked. We agreed on how we were not living our lives that well, I frowned upon you when you mentioned classical music was for pompous cockroaches who pretended to know the meaning of life. Meanwhile your nose was still bleeding. You did not seem to care. I did not care either; in fact, I was glad that it did. I would bite your nose off if that meant to keep you. 

When we got tired of walking, I knew this because you started to limp and leaned your body to mine, we stopped in front of a stone building. It was very well designed, yet its soul was left incomplete. I understood this when I looked at the trees that were refusing to join the dance of the wind. I did not believe anything to be alive if it wasn’t shaken by the glorious wind, it had to stir something inside you. 

The door was ajar. It was a scene left in a hurry; it had already formed a crust over its presence. You felt it hitting you as you stepped back for a moment, then you remembered I was there right behind you and maybe you felt ashamed. In any case, you did not allow it to control you. You tilted your head slightly to the left to invite me inside; I hesitated for the fear that everything would crumble. Yet, the steam of mystery projecting from your eyes in hot bubbles erased all doubt. I was ready to dangle myself from your world. 

We went to a small room lit by candlelight. The flickering light of the flames were creating frivolous shadows on the wall; you sat on the messy bed. I was holding my breath as if I were standing in front of a painting that I adored too much; all was suspended in awe. You took your head in your hands and let the napkin fall down on the floor for it was saturated with your blood, visible no more. 

There was a writing desk next to your bed, and countless papers on that table. Some were crumpled, some were stuck inside the typewriter and your cursive handwriting was glowing. A pile of stacked old books was lying near an overturned wine glass. The shawl you hanged on the edge of the chair was waiting for your return. I cautiously approached the table and examined the dusty pages left to their fate. Other than diary entries I found close to a scribbled shopping list; endless lines of poetry were deserted like an unwanted child. I exhaled in pain, not knowing what the source was. Perhaps it was the same pain that hurled me to the street; maybe it was just the everyday burden of knowing that nothing mattered. 

Your face was swollen, and fresh bruises began to appear under your eyes. “What happened to you?” I asked. Though my voice was as nebulous as a summer night’s dream, a wave of panic seized my entire body. You avoided the question with a drained gesture, did not reply. “You’d better go to the hospital,” I said. No answer. I sat at a distance close enough to hold your hand but far enough to avoid your silent violence. A small pool of blood began to form on the granite floor. 

“Do you write often?” 

“No. Only when I remember the loss. I bear the void of my dreams torn asunder. Those voids are killing me, so I fill them with pages of nonsense writing.” 

“So, you always think about the feelings you can’t carry?”

 “Don’t you?” 

Your eyes shook the frame, you raised a storm there. I pressed my lips upon yours, and it was oh so familiar! Like the august when I turned twenty or the sadness I perpetuated delicately at sunsets or the silence between the storm and rain. It was the closest thing I had to love because you did not push me; you swallowed me with all the frictions.

Blood lines splashed on me from you and your bruises turned into lavender fields. I loved the analogy for all the selfish reasons. I crushed willingly afterwards, took refuge on your warm skin as I was feeding on your blood. I pondered if I attached myself to you to know that I exist and I value. It was a fever licking my feet, my thighs, my forehead. Your tangled hair hid us from the moon for it was jealous. When you separated from my lips panting and breathless, everything seemed alright. Then came your whispers.

“It is funny to me now. I have been sitting on that collapsed wall for a very long time but nobody ever saw me. Not even once.”

We looked at the stars as the silver light ignited our cheeks, and we were both relieved.