Decayeth Not the Rose

It was a bleak September day, and Sharon returned from an appointment with her physician in a melancholy mood. She had been vomiting after dinner most nights of the week and sometimes at work too. Stress, probably, but the couple thought it best that she be checked out as a precaution.

“They did a biopsy and ran some tests.” She stared blankly at a glass of wine, “Dr. Dowell thinks it might be cancer.”

Matthew said nothing, as was his way. He stood, pushing his meatloaf away, walked to her, and wrapped her head and shoulders in his strong arms. He kissed her head. That was his way of telling her he’d stand by her through whatever lay ahead. He offered to help clean up after dinner, but she needed the quiet time. Matthew retired to the study for quiet time of his own.

Poring over articles and stories of survivors, Matthew sighed heavily. Cancer. He looked up and noticed the miniature yellow roses outside looked droopy. It was about time to cut them back for winter. Sharon would be sad--the yellow ones were her favorite. Maybe he could get one more bouquet before first frost.

He returned to his research. Grim result after grim result, interspersed with too few happy endings blurred together as twilight blended into nightfall, then into midnight. Sharon had gone to bed hours ago, but a well-informed soldier is a well-armed one. The stiffening in his back reminded Matthew he desperately needed a new office chair. He crept painfully up the stairs, careful not to make a sound as he entered the master suite. Her lamp was on, but she didn’t stir when he walked in. Her back was to him, and he couldn’t tell if she was asleep. Her voice answered the question before it was asked.

“Matt?”

“Yes, my darling?”

“Don’t let me die.” It was more a pleading whisper than anything else.

“You’re not going to die, hon.” He reassured her, but the statistics he’d seen moments ago haunted his mind.

They got less sleep than either of them would’ve liked, lying in silence, holding each other, and wondering about the future.

The next morning, Matt cut the few good roses left on Sharon’s favorite bush, put them in a vase, and left them on her nightstand just as he had planned. The remainder of his day was consumed in more online research. By the time Sharon got home from work, he had an idea.

“Babe!” He shouted, “Come here!”

Sharon’s purse thumped against hardwood, and her heels clicked toward him.

“There’s a specialist in Maryland doing clinical trials. We can go live up there--get you the best treatment.”

Sharon squeezed Matthew’s shoulders. “Babe, I appreciate the effort, but we don’t even know if that’s what it is yet. Besides, we can’t afford to uproot and move to Maryland.”

“We’ll sell Crescentwood. It’s not like we use it anyway.”

“You can’t do that for me. You love Crescentwood. Your mother died in that house.”

“I love you, and you made me promise. Let’s at least go out there and get it in shape to sell, just in case. It’ll give us some time to clear our heads, get away from all of this.”

“Okay, fine. Just in case.”

At the end of the week, they had heard nothing, and the trip proved a welcome distraction. Between bustling through airports, the two-hour drive into the Colorado Rockies, and discussing all the things they’d need to take care of at the estate, they hardly thought about the looming biopsy. Thick woods opened to reveal the sprawling family home. The couple wound their way up an eternal gravel drive, stopping before a four-car garage. Matthew tinkled keys between his fingers until he found the right one.

Nostalgia flooded over Matthew as the front door squeaked open. The smell of oiled wood and pipe smoke flirted with his nostrils. He breathed deep, filling his lungs with the scent of childhood memories. He never understood what made his father give up the life they had at Crescentwood. Everything was just as he remembered. The woodwork glowed with luster, the furniture as vibrant and soft as when he was a child, even the brass fixtures still shone with their original polish. Matthew was ecstatic. Crescentwood would be an easy sell and would require almost nothing to get it ready to show. He wandered the halls, reminiscing over the touch of familiar doorknobs and ornately carved banisters.

Sharon lay awake most of the night. She wondered if they’d be able to sell Crescentwood at all, much less for the cost of the needed repairs. She stared at cracking plaster on the bedroom ceiling, wondering if it was even safe to sleep there. Matthew had seemed so enamored with the property when they’d arrived it was like he couldn’t see the peeling paint and rotting fixtures. Then again, he always was the optimist. She drifted off to sleep eventually, hoping they wouldn’t need to sell the house at all. Matthew, of course, had no trouble sleeping. He was excited to be home and oblivious to the plight they were in.

The next morning they fought. Matthew slumped down at his grandfather’s old desk. He cradled his head in his hands, wondering what Sharon meant when she accused him of not taking the house seriously. She saw the hours he’d spent arranging realtors and brushing up the few things that needed straightened. Rubbing grimey fingers through his hair, Matthew wondered if the cancer was affecting her mind. Soon he was distracted by the marvelous craftsmanship of the huge antique desk. The engraving felt like home under Matthew’s fingers. The rich wood and cool silver transported him to his childhood, when he would spend hours tracing the miniature scene with his fingers. His forefinger flicked a miniscule mining cart lightly, sending it racing down a tiny track. In the hours he’d spent fiddling with the desk as a child, the figures only moved in his imagination. The cart revealed a small button. He pressed it. The innards of the desk clinked and whirred. A long, thin door flopped down with a click, revealing a hideaway just large enough for his hand to fit inside, laid flat. Carefully feeling, he slid out a crackling bundle of neatly folded papers. They smelled overwhelmingly of sweet, pungent pipe tobacco as fresh as the day it was smoked.  

Matthew’s obsession with his grandfather’s papers grew over the next days. Any spare moment he could snatch away from Sharon, he rushed to the desk to examine the crumbling pages. They were filled with diagrams of Durward’s mines, mathematical figures, and sketches of the family’s beloved roses bred from ancient roots. Durward dedicated his last decades to experimental research, reaching into the realm of the occult to save Charlotte’s life. Matthew dismissed much of the supernatural within those pages but hoped for something of sound medical value that could help him cure Sharon. Included in the document was a hand-drawn map of the grounds, a strange sigil inscribed over a part of the property he’d been prohibited from visiting as a child. Matthew saw his wife less and less, but he knew she was getting worse. She hardly ate, and cooking their dinner clearly exhausted her. Matthew had found a blood-spotted handkerchief in her nightstand. Things grew dire and even without word from the doctor, he suspected the worst.  

Sharon was lonely. Matthew was always buried in some book he’d found in the study. He always coped with stress by withdrawing. Sometimes it was work, others it was video games, this time it was that damned book. She understood. It couldn’t be easy to have a spouse dying of cancer, but she missed him. The house had lost much of its charm. The scenery was nice, but had become mundane. She had explored every inch she could, and the rest was too strenuous. The feeling of captivity grew. She weakened physically, too. The vomiting came more frequently, breaths came more difficult, and sleep was ever more enticing.  

After dinner one snowy evening, the couple retired to the living room to sit in front of the huge fireplace and watch the storm outside. Sharon sat to read a book on mindfulness while Matthew paced the room, worrying for his wife’s future. Matthew was struck by two remarkably preserved roses on the mantle. Each rose was suspended weightlessly in glass globes filled with clear fluid. He marveled at the lifelike way the petals floated and waved as the fluid moved inside. Picking up each globe, tilting them gently, Matthew was entranced.

A trilling ring jolted him out of his mesmer and he fumbled the vase, barely catching it. Sharon answered her cellphone, said a few words, thanked the doctor for the update, and hung up. She sat quietly for a painfully long time, staring into the flames. Matthew, as desperately as he wanted to know, knew not to press her for answers. She would tell him when she was ready.

She wasn’t ready that night, nor any of the next three. She spent most of her time in her room, occasionally coming out to wrap Matthew in a long, tight, silent embrace. He knew. His mind was divided between spending precious moments with his wife and digging desperately for a miracle. On the fourth night, the phone rang again. Sharon came to him in the study.

“Babe, the doctor called again.”

“I heard. What did he say?”

“Look at me, please.”

Matthew met her eyes. “Bad news?”

“He says it’s end-stage.” Her voice broke, “There’s no option for treatment.”

“How long?” Matthew’s heart was in his shoe and a tear slapped his page.

“Not long. A month, maybe. If we’re lucky.”

He jumped up and hugged her tight, kissing her head. They stood in silence like that for a long while.

“We’ll sell the house tomorrow!” He exclaimed, “Fly to Maryland first thing Monday, and get you in to see that specialist. I don’t care what it takes. We’re going to beat this.”

His determination touched her heart and she sobbed into his chest. “Matt, I don’t want to spend my last days in a hospital. I want to be here, at Crescentwood, with you. Will you stay with me?”

“Of course I will. But I won’t give up.” He steeled himself and said “you go get some rest. I’m going to look into some things.”

As she retreated slowly up the winding stairs, Matthew returned to his books. Durward’s writings suggested the damp, cool atmosphere of mines and caves may do wonders for various necrotic disorders like Tuberculosis, and described his attempts to cure his wife’s infection. Strange diagrams and alchemical equations overtook the coherent writing, and Matthew struggled to understand, but hoped Durward had an answer for him, too.  

In the morning, he set out to the marked spot. The hike was a long one. Finally, he arrived at the place to find a ruined, overgrown structure. Poking around, Matthew found a door inscribed with the strange sigil. Splinters pierced Matthew’s fingers as he pried against the rotting wood. Pieces of the old door cracked off in his hands.  

Crawling into the darkness, Matthew was met with the smell of damp rock and decaying wood forgotten by time. His budget-flashlight cut a yellowish ring into the dusty abyss. He made his way forward, crouching low to avoid hitting his head on the ceiling. He felt an electric kind of excitement--answers await just around the next few bends. The twisting shaft followed a long-spent silver vein deep into the mountain, opening up at last into a huge, water-carved cavern. A metal contraption glinted in the dim light, gauges and dials protruding haphazardly in every direction. Matthew saw clearly that the machine was built largely from mine scrap--pieces of carts, wheels, and buckets had been welded together either from convenience or necessity. Pipes slithered out of the machine and across the roof of the mine, then back down into a dozen large, oblong tanks. The machine buzzed and chugged, and Matthew wondered who had kept it running for so long.

Sharon shuffled around in the living room, alone again. She picked up one of the glass globes on the mantle, wondering why Matthew had been so fixated on a couple of dried up roses the night of the doctor’s call. Too weak to stand, she crumpled against the hearth. She set the vase down just in time, but the dead flower inside shattered against the glass. Just then, Matthew burst in spouting gibberish about ‘the key.’ He insisted that she go with him, that he had an answer, that he could cure her better than any doctor. She followed hesitantly, already tired from her morning. It seemed hours passed and still he led her through deepening woods. She wondered if he had gone totally mad. When she saw the gaping hole in the earth, Sharon’s heart plummeted. She couldn’t go in there. She’d never make it back out in her condition. But she did go--against everything within her.

“Matthew, I don’t want to keep going.” Even her voice seemed reluctant to project into the mine and she tugged against his hand.

“It’s just a little further, babe, I promise.” Matthew would not be assuaged. Whatever he’d been spending time on, this was the result. Lacking the strength to make the hike back on her own, and partially out of fear of what lay beyond the yellow gleam, she pressed on and kept her hesitations to herself.  

Weak, out of breath, and cold, she felt she would soon collapse. Their pace slowed as the mine shaft opened into a large room.

“Here it is!” He exclaimed expectantly.

“What is it, dear?” she slumped against an old mine cart, unable to stand on her own.

“It’s the answer. It’s everything Durward worked for. Everything my father worked for. Look!” He threw open a port on the right-most tank. She saw, suspended in a viscous fluid, a corpse. Long, stringy hair floated in front of its milky eyes, and a cracked, yellow tooth protruded from its putrescent lips. Sharon covered her mouth. The face was bloated, blackish, and blistering with rot. Chunks of flesh broke off and lingered in the window before disappearing into the depths of the tank.

“He did it. Durward figured out how to keep his wife alive for all these years. Look at her Sharon, isn’t she perfect? As beautiful as the day she went to sleep. And that’s not all!” Matthew ran to the second tank and opened its viewing window. Another corpse, less decayed, with deep, purple, finger-shaped bruises around her neck.

“It’s Mom! I found a letter. He told me everything, he explained why he did it and how much he loved her. I wish I would have known. I would have helped him!” he said running to the third tank, “This one’s for you. You never have to die! This is our answer!” He strained to open the container. It gaped, hungry for her. Horrified, she gazed at the generations of women floating in rotten liquid.

Sharon stepped backward as Matthew approached.

“Honey, you’re scaring me. You’re not putting me in there.”

“Don’t you see? It’s the only way. Look at them, Sharon. They’re alive in there--just sleeping. Look. No decay, no death, they’re exquisite! You’ll drift off to sleep and that’s it. Just like the roses. Don’t you want to be my rose?”

“Matthew, no. Let’s go back to the house and talk.”

His fists clenched. She wasn’t listening. She wanted to leave, to abandon him, to make him live the rest of his life alone. He lunged.

Sharon ran into the darkness. She could fall down a shaft and drown in icy water, or break her neck on a rock, it didn’t matter. Anything was better than what Matthew had in store for her. Tears clouded what little vision she had, but she kept running. A loud crack erupted in her ears, accompanied by blinding light and immense pain.

She came-to in Matthew’s arms. He was cradling her and stroking her hair. She opened her eyes and saw blood on his hand.

“What happened?”

“You hit your head. It’s okay. I know why you didn’t want to go, I understand.”

“What?”

“You’re scared. You’re afraid to be in there alone forever. It’s okay, I’ll go with you.”

Hair had fallen into her eye and she tried to brush it aside, only to realize she was bound. Terror gripped her. Matthew bent over her on hands and knees, a loving smile on his face. Cold soaked through her pants as liquid gurgled up from the bottom of the tank. It soaked her shoulders, tingled the back of her neck. Her pounding heartbeat throbbed in her skull. The liquid smelled like rotting meat, salt, and pennies.

“It’s okay. I’m ready too. We’ll be together just like we wanted.” His voice was calm and almost cheerful. It sent shivers through her.

He laid on top of her, and slammed the tank shut. She wriggled beneath him as hard as she could but he was heavy, and she was weak. Liquid flowed over her face, into her nostrils. Her lungs begged for air, and her head swam. Matthew sprawled over her. She fought uselessly against his weight. Precious bubbles escaped her lips. The skin of her face began to prickle. She felt blisters forming on her back. The fire in her chest won, and she gulped deep, unsatisfying breaths of liquid. Bright colorful spots filled her vision, and a calm washed over her mind. Her consciousness floated next to their bodies, out of the tank, out of the mine. The house was quiet. No birds sang in the trees. No smoke belched from the chimney, no fire burned in its hearth, and four pristine roses floated peacefully in globes on the mantle.