Kendor Gardens

The creak of the door as it closes seeps through his skin into his flesh. The muffled but strong touch of the metal latch – a mechanism meant to conceal, to protect – shakes him. 

For a moment, he saw his hand gripping the round copper handle tightly, which he had touched so many times, trying to reduce the noise caused by the rotation of the hinges and the sudden locking of the door with blue stained glass. Behind that door was home.

But this sound was deafening, hardly protective, and the paint flaked off from the solid wood, its magnitude almost inquisitorial.

"The accused should stand to hear the verdict! The accused should stand..." an echo from afar that passed indifferently through his eardrum. The axons refused to transmit the information, and the control tower denied its existence. Who is the accused? Why does he need to stand? His hand still felt the cold of the handle, the light still reflecting in blue spheres, he's still at home. A sudden jolt... he stood up mechanically.

"The court finds you guilty of committing an aggravated murder of a family member, punishable under Article 219 of the Criminal Code combined with Article 312 of the Criminal Procedure Code with either life imprisonment or execution by electrocution. The court reserves twenty-four hours to decide on the applicable penalty. This session is adjourned until tomorrow, April 20th, 9:00 AM."

Now he needs to move, to put one foot in front of the other. His arms don't belong to him anymore; they belong to the gendarmes flanking him. He no longer feels the pain of the grip, just the disdainful looks. The rhythm of footsteps on the hard marble resonates in tandem with the jingling of keys attached to the belt of the one supposed to protect. But who? Him or others? Hundreds of voices, tones, exclamations dissipate in the confined air of the seemingly endless corridor. Only the footsteps continue... and the jingling.

The metallic white door closes, the key turns, the peephole slides shut. Two square metres of white, a rusted bed, and twenty-four hours for death or life. Yet it's good that he doesn't have to choose. What would he choose? How would he choose? How would he live with himself afterward, if...? Maybe indeed justice should be put into someone else's hands, responsibility shifted. The state has decided. Fate. God. They all know better, they are all better than him. He is guilty, he needs to be electrocuted. The voltage would jolt him a bit, teeth would chatter, warmth and the last electrical impulse of the brain, the last heartbeat. Done! Liberation! And maybe he would see her floating among the clouds in the lilac dress he gifted her on their third wedding anniversary after searching for it in shops for a week. Maybe for a second he could glimpse her face, eyes nestled beneath those perfectly arched eyebrows. Maybe this time she wouldn't hide, as she always does in his dreams. Maybe this time he wouldn't be left with just the fragrance of violets spilling from her curls. Maybe somehow she'd understand, forgive him. Thomas Aquinas said that by accepting the death penalty, the accused can rid himself of the demonic parts and thus escape punishment in the afterlife. This could be a form of rehabilitation. If God forgave him, then surely she would. In fact, who cares about God? It's her forgiveness he craves. And maybe not even that. He should be honest with himself at least once; he longs to see her face one last time, and after that, all the damnation of hell can engulf him.

She had endured pain, and now he too must suffer. But is death really the answer? Is an electrocution enough to wipe away her last breath from his hands and his conscience, to cleanse her blood from his shirt and heart? Maybe so, for electricity silences both the body and soul. Yet, what if there's an after? What if, for all eternity, he is haunted by the repeated echo of that man's name, each time at the pinnacle of their intimate fusion? What if he forever longs to silence her, clenching her fragile neck in his hands? What if he yearns to keep her to himself again, with all her blood dripping from repeated stabs?

He sees her again, raised in glory, even with his hands contorted around her slender throat. And again, lifeless on the ground, a crimson pool slowly seeking its return to the earth through the wooden floor's cracks. His heartbeats are mechanical, rhythmic. If only death would claim him. He can feel the rivulets of cold sweat, his guts twisting in agony. A thick, muddy-green substance stains the uneven wall. He truly is the serpent, spewing venom. Yet, who has ever witnessed the death of pure evil? He needs to suffer, feel his eyes popping, veins bulging, legs flailing in chaos, just as she had. To experience that burning dread, drawing those final desperate breaths, searching for his gaze, trying to grasp the 'why'. To savour the bitter taste of remorse as she instinctively tries to stem the bleeding. Yearning for a halt, a reprieve from the blows, to tell him she loves him. Clinging to the fragile hope, in her fading consciousness, that perhaps she hadn't misjudged so terribly, that somewhere within, he was a good man. If he just stops, perhaps there's life. Perhaps, just perhaps, he does love her.

The wall, in its state, mirrors Whistler's "Nocturne Grey and Silver". Perhaps that's why he'd always perceived a monster, wings outstretched over a puddle, rather than the tranquil onset of evening. Anais Nin's words ring true — we see not as things are, but as we are. He had always been this monster, just blind to his own reflection. The yellow eyes on the wall now lock with his verdant ones, caressed and ensnared by embracing shadows. He slumps, back against the moist wall, inhaling deeply. The stagnant, acrid scent gradually gives way to the freedom outside, replaced by a lethargic wind, as tired of life as he, carrying a stray leaf that settles on his lap. That leaf, how deeply familiar it felt.

☆☆☆

The wind weighed heavily on the cherry tree leaves, which shimmered like fireflies at night. Tiny green fruits dotted the scene, glistening and alive, just bathed in rain and light. Jasmine exploded everywhere, offering the world tender cups of white, raw and seductive perfume. Wild roses, unconquered and free, entwined with the budding shoots of raspberry and blackberry. 

He adored Kendor Gardens for it mirrored him: somewhat wild yet poised. Tamed just enough to be called a park. No more than two parallel paths, sporadically interrupted by grass that seems to spread further with every step, only to significantly reduce afterward. It brought him peace to know it existed, that something as rugged was nearby. He saw himself as tough, unyielding, but always just. He gauged the years by observing the flowering cycles. First eruptions of wild snowdrops, hidden violets among the leaves, and hyacinths were followed by tulips on the ground and wisteria reaching for the sky. Lilacs gave way to acacia, whose delicate blossoms lasted no more than three days. The early June jasmine always gave him chills; it was everywhere and so very white. But primarily because with its last petals, any trace of colour died until autumn. Three months of green — deep, light, olive, khaki, but all shades of green. Then, a few yellow leaves, a few red ones, and endless rains filled the autumn, leading to the starkness, solitude, and decay of winter. And this is how he measured his age. Now, like the towering tree, the bush that took up slightly more space, or the bulbs buried deep in the soil, he too was a year older. And every morning as he walked the same path from one end to the other, he had seven minutes to himself. There, he could breathe!

Sometimes she would join him in the spring, and they'd walk those narrow paths multiple times, pausing at every flower, every butterfly, or simply to find the sun filtering through the blooming cherry canopy. With the same wide-brimmed straw hat he'd snatch up at the last moment from the coat rack, because she always forgot her sunscreen and turned as red as a strawberry. Dressed in her pastel dresses, reminiscent of little girls about to start primary school the following autumn, and her violet fragrance that overcame winter to bring a splash of colour and joy to sidewalks, fences, mud puddles, and to him. Sometimes their hands would naturally find each other, their steps having moved in the same direction for years. Every time their eyes met, they'd light up, and their hearts would resonate at the same frequency.

When he was by himself, a certain unease would often creep in, kindling thoughts of abandoning everything and retreating to a secluded cottage in an even more secluded forest. However, these thoughts would vanish as swiftly as they came, for he realised he could only truly thrive in the bustling city. He was still searching for himself, even if every second he felt he knew who he was. And she was there. Just the thought of being away from her made his heart ache. He'd quickly push the thought away, but the shadow of another would emerge from the most hidden recesses of his mind. Watching her, so absorbed in the scent of flowers, soaking up life, embracing the sky, it was impossible not to wonder what would happen if one day her attention and admiration were no longer solely for him. He loved her the way the seasons loved Kendor Gardens: completely, passionately, to the point of dissolution. Nevertheless, these shadows invariably receded, relegated to the depths of his subconscious, for spring was inherently beautiful, she was irresistibly so, and the world remained warm, cheerful, and fundamentally good.

☆☆☆

Awakened in his cell, the outside world felt a universe away. The walls, like towering chalk giants, threaten to smother him. Or perhaps, like Raskolnikov, he now found himself trapped in the abyss of guilt and remorse. No! He was certain now that he didn't seek redemption. The warmth of her embraces, the tenderness of her laughter, and the uncontrollable rage that obliterated every shred of reason – he didn't want to forget. Why should he? He wanted to remember every detail, every fragment, every shard. Every recollection would serve as a welcoming embrace. Each replay would be worn as a badge of honour, a testament to his raw, unchecked emotions.

No! He didn’t seek atonement or forgiveness. The outside world went on with its routine, while inside the cell, time stretched and contorted. Why would he care? For the first time, he could be truly honest with himself. For the first time, he could experience life without filters or regrets. After all, he was merely a man who had heeded his instincts and touched the pure essence of his humanity, even if it was dark and grotesque. It made him feel more alive than anyone else.

The clinking of keys echoed, and the cell door yawned wide. The moment of final reckoning had arrived. With guards on either side, he tread with a gravitas, each step heavy with intention. The door's groaning hinge was lost to him as a wash of light enveloped the space, momentarily overwhelming his senses.

It was an achingly familiar luminance. Deeply inhaling, he yearned to merge with it. Memories cascaded: the ethereal glow from Santa Maria del Fiore Cathedral in Florence, the mystical shimmer inside the Melissani Cave in Kefalonia, and the gentle light that sometimes spilled through his home's door painted glass. He oriented himself, attempting to anchor within the light's embrace.

Lifting his face to the warmth, a silhouette took form. The light was her, an ephemeral echo of her former self. Their gazes locked for an instant, his eyes brimming with remorse. On her visage, only stillness, save for a solitary tear following gravity before evaporating back into the radiant embrace from which she emerged. Suddenly, the air was tinged with the purple essence of violets.

Desperately, he reached out, yearning to touch, to convey the words he could never speak. But in the light's truth, his hands manifested as shadowy talons. A choked "Forgive me!" escaped him, a plea saturated in anguish. Yet, the words emerged strained, as if every syllable bore the weight of a lifetime, trapped and yearning for release. 

The echoing voice of the judge filled the courtroom, his gavel repeatedly striking the well-worn wood. However, for him, the sound was distant, like a muted hum on the periphery of his consciousness. The verdicts, whether they were for a day or fifty years, had become inconsequential. It was in that tear that he sought answers. Whether it was a tear of forgiveness or one of regret, he would never know, but at least there had been a fleeting moment of connection amidst the shared aftermath of their tragedy.

☆☆☆

He took a deep breath. The bench was cold at Kendor Gardens, and his legs felt numb. The sanctuary he once knew was now in ruins, overtaken by withered vines and thorn-laden bushes. The promises of spring were long gone. All that remained was the melancholic beauty of early winter, whose chilly winds whispered that renewal and warmth might forever remain elusive and out of reach.