For Companionship, Perhaps

You meet her in her garden, surrounded by brambles and thicket. The flowers have long since died, but the blooms stubbornly cling to their branches. A thick silence shrouds this world, one where the only life is you and her.

Your breath is shallow, your legs collapsed under you from the strain of being prey. She finds you, a warm hand grazing your cheek.

"Hello, poor traveler. You may believe yourself dead, but your body persists. Allow me to tend to these wounds and perhaps your will as well."

You find yourself in a glass conservatory, where the chill mist of the early dawn can't get to you. Her hair is shadowy blonde, her eyes a honeyed yellow. She pours you a cup of chamomile tea as you lay beneath a quilt to soothe your shivering. In a vase sit a bouquet of withered roses, their petals shriveled and papery. On the wall hang boxes of lifeless butterflies, lives ended by a pin to the abdomen.

"Life is such a fragile thing. These dried flowers, these butterflies represent a moment in time, a stasis where its beauty can be appreciated forever. Isn't that such a wonderful thing?"

As you begin to heal, you sweep the cobwebs and dust of her home. You're careful around her collections of bones, of the raccoons and rodents and birds unfortunate enough to get caught in the thorns of the bushes in the grove. You pick up the corpses of moths gathered beneath the lanterns by the front door. She's taught you that nothing is too insignificant to take notice of, to preserve. She saved you from a world of decay and rot, too. You're forever grateful.

She brews you the same tea every morning, as the little sun that can break through the fog paints the sky a soft orange. The branches of barren oaks cover the garden of death in shadow, the conservatory mostly lit with an oil lamp set by the tea kettle. As you drink the warm liquid, she brushes your hair with an antique comb. She is gentle, always leaving your chocolate locks soft and smooth.

“Your hair was so damaged when you first came here. In your past life, you weren’t afforded the luxury of being able to take care of your beauty. Allow me to give that to you now.”

There are a few plants able to grow inside her cottage despite the eternal autumn beyond her walls. A small lemon tree grows tiny, round citruses, which she uses to make pastries. Planted herbs crowd one side of the kitchen, basil, mint, parsley, oregano, rosemary, ready to be snipped when needed. Everything she makes tastes like a far away memory, like a photograph with a blurry focus and worn edges. You watch her bake attentively, the motions of her arms and her careful measurements. You answer her questions as she asks them, always posed with consideration.

“What’s your favorite flower, my dear? You can tell so much about a person by the plants they like to tend to. I’ve always loved roses, their smell so rich despite the thorns they bear. I think people are like them. Guarded exteriors, but such a rewarding inside. Don’t you agree?”

She didn’t seem like she had any thorns at all, unable to enact cruelty in any way. Or perhaps she could, but had the strength of will to hold back her briars. Not like you. Your lack of spines was from exhaustion, cut back over a decade and a half. They sliced off the spikes in your skin and your spirit to expose the purple blooms barely holding onto your stem. It made you so delicate, so easy to break. That was why you accepted her kindness with such eagerness.

Your new bedroom was small, just the size you needed and nothing more. It was like the space was embracing you with its closeness. A small bronze rack held the white blouses and embroidered vests you wore each day, usually brown in color. That day you picked one with purple lavender stitched along its front. Jars and boxes with buttons and spools of thread rested on a shelf by the door, ready to be used despite your lack of knowledge of how to sew. 

About once a week, you have to cut back the brambles of the dead berry bushes outside, still expanding their reach despite the lack of life in their appearance. Rarely, small blackberries and raspberries hide in the branches deeper in, ones you present to her in pride. Her blackberry pie was your favorite thing she could make. As you use the shears to prune the dried stems, you accidentally slice a wound open on your palm. Blood like cherry jam oozes out of the injury, dripping down into the burnt out grass. You turn to wash your hand in the fountain behind you, but the apparition that greets you makes your heart skip a beat.

In the rippling water is you, but in a state of decay. Blurred is the image of a corpse, sunken in blue eyes and ghostly pale skin, maggots crawling out of gashes in your skin. You look down to comfort yourself that that sight is not reality, but horror sinks in as you see your body in a state of falling apart. You feel a grub climb out of your eye socket and fall onto your leg. You scream, but your voice is hoarse and weak.

“Dearest, what is the…oh.”

You are greeted by your host, and you watch her body rot in front of your eyes. Her skin goes from a warm brown to a pale sheen, flesh sluicing away from her arm to reveal bone. Her hair is disheveled and tangled, full of sticks and leaves. Her yellow eyes seem darker, farther away.

“Reality is such an ugly truth. I let you believe I saved you, but it's time for the bitter pill. You died as I died, hunted by the dirtiest filth of humanity. We were blessed with this afterlife, where we can live out our days in bliss. But I wanted you to be able to live in ignorance, to pretend you were still alive, that you hadn’t been brutally picked apart. I suppose that was my mistake.”

You fall to the ground, your knees crumbling beneath you. She follows you, wrapping her arms around you. You wish you could imagine them as warm and inviting, but instead they are cold and devoid of life. Still, you rest your head on her shoulder.

“That’s what we are. Corpses playing pretend at being alive. You’re beautiful, even now, whether you believe it or not. I hope you can still see me that way. You can make yourself look anyway you want in this world. I just wanted you to see you weren’t alone.”

You stay there, an unknown amount of time passing. Eventually, your skin begins to find its color again, growing back into its regular position. She gives you a hand and takes you back for a cup of chamomile tea, brushing your tattered hair back to normal. You're not alive. But you don’t have to be. With her, whether you're a corpse, or if your breaths and heartbeat aren’t real, it doesn’t seem so important. You’re happy to be dead, if it’s with her.