Essential Oil of Rose

It is a compact establishment with an innocuous storefront. From the outside looking in, you’d never guess that it was built on a foundation of death. The brick and wood facade give less away than the florist’s sign adorning the entrance.

I’m always conflicted when crossing the threshold of this bordello of corpses, with its variegated whirlwind of hues and tints. I think the pang of sorrow stems from the intrusive thought of the destruction needed for such a beautiful symphony of colors to exist. But, alas, the budding seed of my conscience never blooms. The dopamine is just too strong.

As my eyes adjust to the light, a short and inaudible gasp escapes my barely parted lips. Laid there, motionless but inviting, Jasmine’s beauty supersedes comparison. It is infinite and I am but a finite being. It would take me at least an eternity to do justice to her beauty and my desires, if not for the faint murmur that distracts me. Because I am already in the throes of infinity, there seems to be an unwilling callousness in the way Lily whispers ‘+1’ in my ear. Her presence makes the hairs on the nape of my neck stand up. As I turn, the sight of her almost brings me to my knees in a state of either prayer or perversion. I can’t quite tell which. She is so tempting, but not who I came for. 

And so I step deeper into this dwelling. As I do, my eyes part further and further, like waters before Moses. The chemicals in my midriff feel like the palpable tension in the air before a clearly impending storm. My eyes, voraciously unblinking, feast on the sight of slender curves and trimmed foliage. My corneas are extensions of my fingers, the tips of which graze bare skin that maybe shouldn’t be here in this house of whorers. Still, I venture forward,

Wooden floorboards creak underfoot as I search for her. Dust hangs suspended in the rays of warm light streaming in from the windows. I scour figures and faces as I walk through wafting scents that linger, heavy and intoxicating. Like both the newcomer and retriever at an opium den, my movements past seemingly lifeless forms are cautiously lithe, as if to leave as small a footprint as possible. I want to be as minimally complicit in the carnage that ensued here. I want my conscience unburdened by the benefits I’m to reap from all these lives lost. And then I see her. 

Plucked in her prime, her skin shows nary a wrinkle or blemish despite having passed through various unfamiliar hands to get where she is now. Some were tender and appreciative of her wonder, but to others she is a means to a carnal end. And, still, not a single petal has fallen from her crown. Nor will it. She is safe now.  

With a heavy heart and a light touch, I bring her to my lips and breathe her in. I’d feel worse about this if she had never been taken from the Damascan fields she grew up in. I’d feel worse if it were me that ripped her from her very roots, showcased her under red lights, and kept her at the mercy of a procurer that staves off her desiccation for his own selfish ends. But it wasn’t me.

It’s very little consolation. I can’t help but think. What did she do to deserve being here, besides being beautiful? What do I have to benefit from her beauty? Nothing, and everything, respectively. What a wretched creature I am, feeding on a life so beautiful to fuel a glimmer of life within myself. At least she is safe for the time being.

The problem with a climax is the very thing that defines it. A climax without a peak is just a plateau, and a peak necessitates coming back down. I control my breathing in an effort to stretch these sensual moments into as many lifetimes as possible. I exhale and expend as much air from my lungs before slowly inhaling through my nose. The volatile molecules excite one of the most primitive parts of my human form. The chemical impact she has bypasses the thalamus and floods my primary olfactory cortex with the force of a planetary tsunami. No other sense is capable of this. The difference between the sight, touch, taste, or sound of her and being able to breathe her in like this is like going from licking a battery to being struck by lightning. In these moments, she is completely mine. In these moments, she is safe.

Until I take her home. 

Until I take her head, crown intact. 

I wonder if she knows this. I wonder if it matters to her whether they chase her with pitchforks or accolades, or whether they stifle her out of love or with hate. In a world driven mad by her beauty, her fate is sealed either way. I wonder if she’ll see this as my laying her to rest. I wonder if she’ll see this as me immortalizing her. 

If not for me, she would wilt and fade. Many a madman would shackle her to temporal chains, incarcerated within a clear prism and immune to the passage of time. But these taxidermal efforts preserve conquest, not beauty. I hope to preserve her very essence. Before her light fades for good, I hope to capture of it what I can. 

So she sits, submerged in steel wares and waters that grow increasingly hot, buffeted by a soft rolling boil. The destruction is controlled. I deconstruct her without damaging any of the individual components, and then distill what I need. But if I strain my ears, I can hear the steam that slips through cracks and crevices, carrying the high pitched screams from within. Slowly and tortuously, I let Occam’s razor play its part. With tremendous effort, I bring forth but a few droplets of moisture.

But who knew Occam was a butcher and his razor a meat cleaver. I turn my back to what’s left of her crumpled form, little more than refuse from a higher pursuit. Her skin is scarlet but the liquid I collect in a vial is almost clear. Almost giddy, I whet the tip of my nose in the waters of her being: a concoction of a film of sweat, a trail of tears, and dripping transudate. I just want to breathe her in. And I do. In the midst of leafy limbs and guts strewn about, I take deep breaths. 

Butterflies in my stomach? No, electrons are ripped from their nuclei as my very existence dissipates into the digital. The summits sitting atop the highest mountains kneel in prostration and kiss the deepest chasms of the oceans as the world turns inside out. Cumulonimbi gather and drench me in their tears as they mourn at the wake of rhyme and reason. Their electricity courses through my veins; their thunder in my ears pales in comparison to the deafening silence between each sniff. The laws that govern and give order to the universe unravel and meaning itself becomes chaos. And in the midst of the chaos, I feel alive.