When Roses Wither

IT WAS AROUND mid-winter when they found Oliver.

His body was the color of the snow coating his half-naked frame. His orbs were contracted, and his lips were shriveled and pale from the aridity. One could only imagine the pain he went through before he gasped his last breath. Vincent gazed into the snow, his frame unattached to the crowd surrounding a corse. Agony. Remorse. These feelings settled within his heart the minute he found out that Oliver was no longer in sight. Slowly, he dragged himself towards the crowd, pushing his way through the whispering crows.

Vincent could almost smell the fear leaving Oliver's lips as he crouched over the body of the man he somehow grew accustomed to. His orbs scanned his exanimated face before soaking in the twigs biting at the man's skull. Vincent's fingers twitched, and the sudden urge to reach and pull out every last one of them from his curls stabbed at his chest. The thousands of murmurs around him drowned out, and he found himself basking in the company of the fallen man who had on only a pair of black briefs to guard his dignity.

Oh, Oliver, Vincent sighed inwardly, his conscious thick with desolation. Imagine the hapless children who will not have the hardihood to face this park.

Vincent's nose scrunched up in discomfort, and he averted his eyes away from Oliver to the blinding white snow. He would be lying if he said he was not contented nor disheartened by the man's death. They both found peace. That's all that was to it.

The aching in Vincent's hamstrings augmented, and he stood with his hands stuffed in the pockets of his beige trench coat. He examined the park with all its purity and chuckled — a mirthless laugh that rumbled in the back of his throat. White blanketed every inch of the very thing created to bring joy to anyone who stepped foot into it. Now, it was the very thing the kids in Royal Rselm would fear the most.

Vincent's jaw clenched, and he shook his head at the irony. His index finger rhythmically began tapping against the fabric engulfing his hands, and just as a zephyr drifted by, he shut his eyes and inhaled deeply.

You bastard, Vincent swore internally. Whoever did this . . .

The man's thoughts trailed off as he turned on his heels and brushed through the villagers surrounding the park. A few eyes landed on him, and Vincent scoffed at how shamelessly they whispered among themselves. It wasn't a secret to the town that Vincent and Oliver were acquainted with each other. After all, Oliver was a member of his support group.

"Mr. Rosental," a voice from behind called, and Vincent slowed his pace when he left the crowd. Heavy footsteps sounded themselves to Vincent, and soon, a body appeared beside him.

"Did you . . . Did you know him?" Silvery and breathy from running, a voice beside Vincent washed over the man who vehemently glared at the snow a few feet away from him. The question seemed to snap Vincent out of his stupor, and he clenched his jaw.

With only a glance, Vincent replied, "You could say that."

The boy's titian stained curls tumbled over his furrowed brows as he tilted his head to the side subconsciously. His gaze averted from the ground to Vincent's side-profile, and he nibbled on the inside of his cheek as he slowed his pace just enough to fall behind the man.

"Are you okay?" He asked, murdering the silence that fell upon them.

His voice barely grazed the surface of an undertone, and that seemed to pique Vincent's interest. He met the boy's gaze as they walked in unison, the sound of their boots dragging against the snow filling the air.

Vincent couldn't help but chortle at the boy's concerned face. He couldn't remember the last time he saw a look of pure concern on someone's face, especially one directed at him.

Coming to a halt, Vincent turned to face the boy, who stumbled in surprise. His large honey eyes widened as he used his hands to prevent himself from knocking into the taller man, resulting in him grasping onto Vincent's shoulders when he lost his balance. Realizing what he just did, the boy immediately let go and mumbled an apology.

"What's your name?" Vincent inquired when the boy finally regained his posture.

"Allen Hyde . . . sir," he replied and visibly gulped. He would be lying if he said that he didn't find Vincent intimidating. When he moved to Royal Rslem, the name spreading around the town like a newborn virus was Vincent Rosental — one of the town's best therapists.

"Well, Allen," Vincent stressed a bit on his name as if testing it out. He swallowed the boy's appearance; his short and petite figure; his large and innocent eyes filled with pure curiosity for this world; one would have mistaken him for a blossoming teenager — including Vincent himself.

"Thank you for your concern, but I think you should get back to your family." He dismissed the conversation.

Stunned, Allen's face fell, and his heart dropped to his stomach. Cerise stained his freckled cheeks and the tip of his ears as he watched the older man walk away from him without another word. Humiliation closed up his throat, and with a huff, he crossed his arms to get rid of the cold, then returned to the crowd.

♕

When the dark betrayed the sky, Vincent found himself floating in solitude in his office — his chapped lips hugging the bitter paper weapon between his index finger and thumb. The pallor in his gaunt expressionless stare was almost sickening — as if the man had forgotten what sleep was. His shoulders slumped — a longing gaze on his fag. He snorted the wisps of silver-gray smoke out of flaring nostrils as his foot furiously tapped the air. Dark circles of exhaustion kissed beneath his eyes tenderly, and for a moment, he savored the feeling of complete equanimity.

The members of his support group were to begin accumulating downstairs in a few minutes — and out of great discontent — Vincent sighed. He vehemently pinched the flesh between his eyebrows with his thumb and index finger, sliding them down to the bridge of his nose, attempting to ease the ailment within his chest. He would be lying if he said that he was pleased that he had to face citizens of the town he loathed the day after finding Oliver's corse, but to not plaster a fracture on his reputation, he forced himself down the stairs and into the dull, beige room.

One by one, they entered and settled within their seats. One person, in particular, captured Vincent's eyes. He observed how the smaller boy sauntered to the seat in front of him on the other side of the deformed circle. The unfamiliarity forced him to stare at him with furrowed eyebrows and eyes that held no shame. Allen glanced at Vincent, the corner of his lips tugging upward. It was as though that little gesture flipped a switch within Vincent as he recognized the boy immediately. Aware that he had been staring too long, Vincent tore his eyes away and spoke up.

"Good morning, everyone." A few people mumbled a response.

"I'm certain we all are aware of the case that struck not only the staff and members of this institution but the town itself." Vincent inwardly scoffed at his words. What brazen words for such a whited sepulcher, and everyone knew it.

"But let us not let that discourage us, as we are here to heal," Vincent glanced at Allen. "And heal only."

Silence bled within the room, and the eye contact between the two remain as the next sentence of words escaped Vincent's lips.

"Please, state your name and phobia — and if you are feeling generous — a brief introduction of it."

A man stood from his seat.

"My name is Henry, and I am Astraphobic," he spoke, and Vincent finally broke eye contact. Clearing his throat, he turned his attention to the speaking man.

♕

"Mr. Rosental," Allen called out as he exited the meeting room and shrugged on his trench coat. Vincent's shoulders tensed, but he slowed his pace nonetheless.

"You do remember me, right?" The boy asked, pinning Vincent's side-profile with his eyes. He watched as the man narrowed his eyes and glanced at him.

"Was I supposed to remember you?" Cold and dead, Vincent's voice penetrated Allen's chest, and the boy shrunk a bit.

"U-Uh, um..." Was all that left his mouth as cerise stained his cheeks. Vincent exhaled through his nostrils and came to a halt. He turned to face Allen, eying his figure.

"Yes, I remember you," he told him. A smile cemented itself on Allen's lips.

"Oh, that's good," he said with a chortle, and Vincent frowned, commencing his walk toward the exit. Startled, Allen followed suit.

"A-Are you okay?" The boy asked, looking over the man's shoulder. Vincent's face fell as he caught a glimpse of Allen, who managed to catch up to him. They stopped at the door, both men on either side of the doorway.

"Good day, Mr. Hyde." Vincent murdered the sorry excuse of a conversation. The curtness of it formed a frown on Allen's lips. With a bob of his head, he exited the building.

♕

The sun bled into the breasts of the earth at full tilt. No member could not bring themselves to speak whole-heartedly, not after seeing the dolor in Henry's eyes — the dolor that he willingly drowned in. With sunken eyelids, he pushed the doors of the building open, making sure to lock it behind him. His eyes drank the empty streets of Royal Rselm and the darkness engulfing it. His balled fists found home within the pockets of his trench coat as he turned and dragged himself down the street. He had not a clue of where he was going but allowed his feet to pull him to wherever they found interest in the ground. It wasn't until he came to a stop that his gaze shifted from the white path to his surroundings. His shoulders tensed, and his eyes largened in size at the sight of the park not too far away from him. Startled, he backed away until his lower back made contact with a barrier. He turned and eyed the bridge before him, then lowered his gaze to the frozen lake below it. The sudden urge to climb on top of the barrier and jump off, hoping the ice would break with him, stabbed at his chest, and he gulped.

Was he to give in to those thoughts? Would the urge drown him bit by bit, withering away pieces of his sanity? If he did give into the suffocating urge, what would become of him then? Would the glacial liquid cut away not only his emotions but his life? And if he were to survive somehow, and the ice supported his weight, would he plummet back into the darkness Oliver toiled to get him out of from having failed yet another idea he bloomed? If he fancied a waltz with death, would his dead beloved roll in his coffin, angered at her disgrace of a partner who could not even keep his word. What kind of man would he be then?

A slight burn behind his eyeballs brought Vincent out of his stupor, and his vision blurred with every passing second. Subconsciously, he sauntered toward the lake. His nails bit at his palms, and the silence coating the park screamed at him to go back, but he ignored it. Vincent stared at the body of what was no longer liquified water and hesitantly stepped onto it. During his walk of great solitude, he noticed the little things he never seemed to take in before Oliver went missing; the twigs lying helplessly against the ice; the way the moon shamelessly exhibited her naked physique in the sable museum to all living things; the curve of the frozen fishes' body and the gaping of their mouth — the moment they the cold stole their life away, the moment they realized that they were about to die. It all became eerily evident to him. And at that moment, Vincent's mind seemed to step aboard the train of memories raging within his head. Had he done something — had he kept Oliver within his arms that night, the two would have been able to gaze at the frozen lake. They both would have realized the little things around them.

Vincent stepped towards the center of the lake. His fists unfolded themselves within his pockets, and he lifted a hand to rub his face — a shaky breath leaving his trembling lips. He could almost hear Oliver yelling at him to get away and come back to the land where he would have stood. His words now haunted him. How could he be at peace now that his provider was no more — when the person he favored in this wretched town ceased to exist. His light became dull the very second God decided to take his happiness away. He cursed the man above and swore that he would never be one with him again.

How could he after all that he had done to him?