Wildflowers

Trigger warning: suicide and homophobia.

The top of the world was a rather cold and gloomy place until the sun began to rise. A melancholy hue rested over the deeply scarred coast and nothing other than the eerie whistle of the wind made a sound. Then, at seven o’clock every morning, light and warmth would pour over the verdant cliff and fill the coastal houses with the dawn. The tall swords of grass whipped in the morning breeze, reflecting the daylight onto any bystander fortunate enough to receive their graces. Most mornings, only the wildflowers–pink, yellow, and blue–would awaken with the greenery and the massive white marble in the sky. Most mornings would pass without incident interrupting the serenity of the anticipated sunrise. Most mornings were spent without Carol Burgess and her legs dangling over the cliff edge, with her sister, unmoving and unbreathing, by her side.

The sun escalated through the sky until at nine o’clock in the morning, Carol salvaged her eyes from the hole burning within her head. She was still wearing the four year-old, torn, black dress she had thrown over her sports bra and shorts after finding her sister on the floor of her closet, curled up like a baby wishing to be reborn. Carol was never supposed to see Jean as she had in her first moments of death. In fact, a note taped to their parents’ bathroom mirror explained that Carol shouldn’t ever have to see the tragedy of Jean’s pale, lifeless body. Their mother and father were meant to find her; they were meant to hold her limp hands and apologize for not loving her as a mother and father truly should. But neither Jean’s wishes in life, or her wishes in death were granted.

Jean had worn a black lace ensemble to dinner the previous night. Her parents shook their heads and scoffed, muttering obscenities and variants of, “our poor daughter has been taken by the devil!” Carol watched her sister, a distant look in her eye as she sat down at the dinner table and started fidgeting with her food. 

The sunlight could make Carol’s sister no more radiant. The fabric of her clothing glinted with the golden reflections of the sun, and her skin shone with a brilliance that almost made her look as she once was, long ago.

Carol stood and looked over the cliff’s edge. The waves were calm, slowly drifting across the pebble beach. It’s as if they didn’t understand that the world had ended when her sister had stopped living. The waves should be outraged, furiously crashing against the shore, and dragging helpless pebbles out to the dark, abyssal water. The waves were the same as they were yesterday, however, and the day before. They, like Carol’s parent’s, continued on like all was well.

Jean lay on the carpeted cliff next to the spot they so loved as kids, where the wildflowers were so dense you couldn’t see your feet as you walked. The girls trusted that the Earth would catch them with every step, and they would never fall away from each other. This is where I would like to stay forever, Jean’s note explained. Jean’s note that was stuffed into Carol’s pocket as if it wasn’t etched into her brain. Jean’s note that her parents had only read once, with anger and disappointment lingering in their minds.

Carol picked up the shovel she had brought with her to the cliff, gripped its wooden stem, and drove its sharp steel blade into the ground. The wildflowers were uprooted, suddenly ripped from their families without much of a choice. The flowers and dirt fell down the cliffside and clapped against the rocks below before Carol lifted the shovel and went for more earth. Her hands throbbed as she disrupted the peaceful landscape, and she wondered if her parents were remorseful, if they were sitting at the kitchen table, staring at their eggs, hating themselves for what they had done.

It was two weeks ago when Jean came out to her parents. She sat on the edge of the couch, each parent in a chair, Carol on the floor. She was apprehensive about what her parents would say. Jean had come out to Carol a year before telling her parents.

“I have something to tell you,” Jean said quietly a year earlier. They were both laying down on Jean's bed, ogling at old pictures of themselves on the beach.

Carol rolled over to look at her sister, “hm?”

Jean stopped, her face was flushed and her hands were making a swishing sound as they rubbed back and forth. She caught her breath, then said quickly, “I think I’m gay,” she paused. Neither of them spoke. “No,” Jean continued. “I don’t think so. I am gay.” Her hands fell onto the bed and she pushed herself to her feet. “Thank you,” she said awkwardly, then stepped into the hallway, slowly shutting the door behind her.

Carol stared at the picture resting in her hands, the last one in the pile. She and Jean, only girls, were standing before the ocean, arms wrapped around each other. The sun shone brightly on the two, forcing their shadows to hide behind them. She smiled before carefully placing the photo on the pile and rising to her feet.

Jean’s sobs echoed from inside the bathroom. 

“Jean?” Carol knocked on the door. “Let me in, okay?”

For a moment nothing happened. When Carol once again raised her fist to the door, the lock turned, and Jean whimpered a restrained, “Okay.”

The door opened, and Jean was on the other side, a wad of toilet paper in her hand, and black paint dripping from her eyes.

“Are you mad?” she asked.

Carol laughed. Jean stepped back, glassy-eyed and flustered. 

“You look like an idiot with all that makeup down your face,” she said, then clasped Jean’s hands between her own. The girls were never physically affectionate, but Carol couldn’t control herself at this moment. “Nothing can make me stop loving you, Jean. Nothing.”

Carol never believed her parents would react the way they had. Her father immediately left the house, no shoes or socks on, and hadn’t returned until well after midnight, stumbling up the stairs shouting, “Get this disgusting thing out of my house!”

Her mother was silent after Jean shared her news, and didn't talk to her again until after four days had passed, asking, “Are you sure you’re a homo?” dropping her voice on the last word. 

What was most surprising, however, was that Jean didn’t seem to be affected by her parent’s hatred. She never complained when they avoided meeting her eyes, never cried when they refused to use her name, she didn’t even budge when they called her every derogatory word they had learned since she came out. Jean was a symbol of strength, unlike anything Carol had ever known.

It wasn’t until three days before Jean’s death had Carol noticed a major change in her behavior. She would walk through the house noiseless, slipping up and down the stairs only when it was time for dinner. When she was with the family, her eyes were glassy and distant, lost in the images floating behind her eyes. She was robbed of her shining spark that made her golden. Her body was pale and veiny now, built with more bones than skin.

On the last day of Jean’s life, Carol ventured into her room. They never bothered with knocking, they were so frank with each other, nothing needed to be hidden by a closed door. But Jean wasn’t on her bed, or at her desk, or by the window. Carol’s heart sped with every passing second before she turned to the only closed door left in the upstairs of their house. 

Jean was curled up in the fetal position on the floor of her closet, wearing her black clothes from the night before. Fit for a funeral. 

Carol could feel no heartbeat within her body. For a second, she wondered if she was the one who had died. Then a tear cut at her cheek, and she slowly, shakily bent over her sister. In Jean’s left hand was an empty pill bottle. Carol cupped her mouth and removed it from Jean’s grasp. In her right hand was a folded photo. The photo of the girls at the beach, no fear, no sadness, no pain was even in the close vicinity. Carol found herself wishing that time could have stopped at that moment. They could be happy forever, and wouldn’t have to worry about anything but the tide.

Carol’s hands burned against the wooden handle of the shovel. Tears drew Carol’s skin raw and she could feel her skin ripping as she bent to finalize Jean’s new home. 

Perhaps if Carol was a better sister to Jean, then they could be digging this grave together, but it wouldn’t be a grave. It would be a tunnel to another side of the world. A side of the world where they were loved and accepted for who they were all along. They wouldn’t have to cry, or shout, or hide. Maybe one day, in another life, on this side of the world, they would run across a flowery field together, losing their feet beneath the surface of the greenery. The girls wouldn't have to worry about suffering, or about being unloved by those who vowed to surrender their love at all costs.

Carol knew, somehow and someway, this day would come. They would find each other, and they would embrace at the end of a long, aching search for their sister and would never leave each other. But she knew that, even now, they would never leave each other. Throughout Carol’s life, every love she experiences, every happy feeling, angry reaction, and sad moment, Jean would be beside her, holding her hand, running through the wildflowers until not only their feet are lost, but their entire selves.