A Flower That Blossomed With Curtains Drawn

A pattern blossomed across her bed sheets, bright flower mandalas, a hippie aesthetic busy with positivity. The vibrancy of the pattern seemed to exude the rose scent that gently lingered in the air of the space. The glower of an essential oil diffuser nearby changed every few seconds, cycling through the colors of the rainbow. Its presence was the only continually shifting force. This contrast made the rest of the room appear cold, frozen even, as it attempted to stay positive. The room struggled, as her curtains were drawn perpetually, blocking out the light. There was no real reason for this: it wasn’t night and she wasn’t changing her clothes. Even if she was changing, she was too high up to be seen by some Peeping Tom.

The room was one of a series of rooms in a high-rise apartment. With their abstract art pieces, their coordinated color schemes, their excessive number of decorative pillows; the other rooms had tried. Their attempts were futile, as none of the rooms carried the same spirit as her bedroom.  They were more concerned about appearances: so, the wild patterns of color, the shelves full of books, and the altar with fresh flowers, dried petals, and candles; those things were much too alive for the rest of the apartment’s liking.

Naturally, because of this, the room was isolated: it was the last to be shown on a tour of the house. If a visitor got to see it, it was shown swiftly, not enough time for someone to really take it all in. It was never allowed to shine in all its brilliance. Otherwise, it would be obvious to the guest: this permeating stagnancy that sunk into the popcorn walls. An aura that hung around the rest of the rooms like particularly cruel gossip permeates the air for much longer than desired.

As her room attempted to make her feel better, she sat on her bed, with the curtains drawn, feeling the sensation of the covers of her bed as they brushed the edges of her toes. It brought remembrances of childhood. The sensation brought with it a memory: the familiar dread of being tickled. She thought tickling was the perfect example of something that masqueraded around as good. Her nose scrunched at the thought of losing control of herself, being unable to breathe, while simultaneously being filled to the brim with laughter.

The memory brought her Dad’s cologne into the air, as the ghost sensations of him rubbing his beard against her neck, sent her both laughing and gasping for air. Not much had changed with her relationship with him, except that the air felt stifled when he was around. It was harder to breathe, despite the years going by.

In an effort to forget the memory, she tried to smell the rose oil, but it had faded. Her room was surprised when she got out of bed to her essential oil diffuser. Her bed knew she hadn’t moved for hours.

She snatched the bottle and shook it; the sound drops of cascading from the bottle into the diffuser. She desperately wanted to mask the smell. She didn’t want to remember the good times. It was much easier to just think of the bad. After childhood, everything had declined, and she just wanted to lie in peace. She didn’t want childhood or adulthood; she blossomed into a great void, with neither a future nor a past.

Being stuck here was much less painful than living. The room knew that her spirit was dying, and it tried its best to wrap her in its arms. The bed welcomed her, as she plopped down again, her hands feeling her bed sheets. She sprawled out into the shape of a star, with her arms and legs reaching, and with a deep breath, she closed her eyes.

Her bed was the only place she felt truly comfortable because when she slept everything would reset. She wouldn’t have to think or worry. Her room was getting quite concerned: because her thoughts and worries were continually avoided as she escaped into sleep.

With her paralysis, came another interesting side effect: her consciousness was divided. A duality was born of this freeze, playing tug a war with her sanity and her will. The two forces came to her in the form of embodied spirits.

At this point, she knew that she had a problem. Her mental health was declining. But solving the problem required energy.

Energy she didn’t have.

One spirit was the child: the child in her justified the sleeping of her life away with the optimistic thought that sleep was a reset. It was a way to come into one’s innocence every morning with the rising sun.

The other spirit was the adult: it felt jaded, tired and unwilling to give. The adult in her would shame her for sleeping so much. It was certain that this was some form of addiction, and that there was something wrong with her. She had to be fixed, as it wasn’t willing to lay down and die slowly with her.

On this day, the two of them were particularly shaken, as she was, by the memory. They were going at it again, against each other and in turn against her.

“So, you’re going to just sit, here are you?” the adult in her spoke, her tone droll and reminiscent of a scolding from a parent.

“Why are you doing this to her? Don’t you see she’s not feeling well?” the child’s high pitch voiced clapped back to the adult in defiance.

In their ongoing argument, neither of them provided a solution with which she could move forward with. She knew that she would have to intervene. As she began to speak, she was surprised as this novel feeling started to rush over her.

“I’d really appreciate it if the both of you would just, just—”

This day instead of her normal dismissiveness, she began to feel heat in the pit of her stomach rise.

“Oh, so now you want a say in something?” the adult in her patronized.

“Why don’t you just let her speak?” the child begged desperately.

With their last responses, they faced her, in suspension. They both froze, their bodies still gesticulating wildly, both defending and cutting her down.

For a long while, she was puzzled. Why did they stop all the sudden? Then the truth came to her.

I asked them to stop. They listened to me.

For the first moment in her life, there was something she was in control of. Her intuition from within her, called her to test this.

“You were saying?” the young woman coaxed them to continue.

Just as if someone had taken a remote and resumed a movie after a bathroom break, the two of them came alive again.

“I’m frustrated with you Lobelia! You’re so lazy and unmotivated. What are we to do?” the adult in her began to show concern, at the end of her utterance.

“Well, maybe she wouldn’t feel so bad if you weren’t such a tyrant!” the child in her couldn’t read into the adult’s true intentions.

Just as the spirit of the adult was preparing her counterattack, again Lobelia thought.

Stop, I need some peace.

Again, the two spirits froze in front of her. This time though, she did something that sincerely surprised the room and the bed.

The gesture was frail at first, and then it became stronger, as she lifted herself out of bed. She stood on her own two feet, feeling the carpet floor beneath them. She approached the two spirits of her consciousness, and just embraced them. She couldn’t stop the tears from flowing, in this gesture of acceptance, and her chest expanded and contracted sporadically as she sobbed.

Without her command, the two spirits animated again and reciprocated the embrace. Lobelia became so overwhelmed by the support of herself, she dropped to her knees, and the adult and the child in her followed.

Lobelia knew that she wasn’t living. She knew that she had failed herself and didn’t know how to climb out of this grave she had dug herself into. But for once, she felt she had someone.

She wasn’t alone because she had herself.

As easily as she laid in bed, she could choose not to. She could take one step at a time, despite feeling she couldn’t take another hit from life.

Her spirit was there, with her, ready to help her keep going.

As she sat on the floor, eyes closed, and with her arms out in embrace, the room knew it was time to soothe. The smell of rose came again to her nose, and when she opened her teary eyes everything felt brighter. The colorful patterns on the bed sheets danced before her eyes, her books whispered to her, and she could smell the flowers in the vase on her altar.

The spirits were gone, and she was brave enough to get out of bed. She smiled and took a deep breath in: she reveled in the fact that she had actually wanted to get out of bed.

Then she felt the urge to feel the sun on her face.

As she opened her curtains, the sun kissed the cheeks of her face as she felt the light for the first time in days.

The room, bathed in light, felt something had truly shifted.

“Lobelia, did you…want to join us for dinner tonight?” a voice’s uncertain and broken request called through the door.

The sudden sound through the door startled Lobelia, as she wiped the tears from her eyes and cleared her throat.

“Yes, I’m coming Papa. Just give me a few minutes.”

Instinctively to mask her upset, she turned to her dresser and looked at her appearance in the mirror.

But something had changed.

Her parents didn’t know how to acknowledge her feelings, so she would always pretend she was fine. She would cover up the redness of her face with makeup, put eye drops in her eyes. This time, she wiped the tears didn’t care to hide her red puffy eyes or the sound of sniffles that rang from her nose.

She wasn’t ashamed, for the tears showed she was still alive. She still had her emotions to guide her. Her compass in life was still turning, and whatever happened, she would follow it. Even if it meant leaving her room and her bed.

Her room and her bed were pleased when the heard the door shut, as they saw their own Lobelia go off to dinner.