A Fictional Short Story... Just for Fun!

by: Ari Dohr

Full Disclosure: This story is entirely fictional, and all copyright is owned ENTIRELY by Ari (Ariana) Dohr.

Reposting, reblogging or any PLAGIARISM of this story is PROHIBITED.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

Memories of Golden Flowers

The walls closed in around her. Those pale, cold, harsh and sterilized walls. There was a methodical dripping sound coming from the far corner of the cramped room, somewhere near the shower’s location. Damp and dirty tiles crunched and ground into her knees. The black-and-white checkered flooring gawked up at her mockingly. Knees bent at an unusual angle, she clutched at the rim of the toilet. She desperately tried to control her breathing, her lungs burning with each wheezing breath. Another wave shuddered through her—rattling her bones.

Once the dry heaving had subsided, she looked skyward at the stark white ceiling; the bright halogens stung her retinas. Another rancid wave of convulsive tremors surged through her frail body. This uncontrolled motion caused her entire body to lock up— every muscle shivered with strain, every bone bracing itself, just to endure the unnatural and vile activity. After what felt like hours, the quaking had abated. Her gaze was drawn to the toilet, where her blood sat swirling in the porcelain pool. She sank lower to the floor, her legs sprawled across the tile flooring. Her head dropped in defeat; with tears brimming in her eyes, she gazed to the right. Where he stood, he said nothing, his eyes showing it all—fear, hopelessness, worry. He cautiously took a step toward her. And at that moment she couldn’t take it any longer. And she broke. She began weeping frantically. She wept so viciously that small, minuscule hiccups were coming out in place of breaths. In that second he was there. It took him all of two steps to be across the confined bathroom and to her side. He sat on the floor and scooped her over to him, so that her body was cradled in his lap. He could feel her bones beneath her flimsy dress. She’s lost so much weight, he thought as he held her.

For a minute or two, all he did was try to console her, gently stroking her hair away from her tear-stained face and all the while murmuring kind words. Finally, she got herself together enough to look up at him, her eyes big and round. He looked down at her with anguish in his stare, as if he could see that vile and alien disease beneath her skin. As if he could see that it was slowly killing her. As if he knew that she would be the only thing in this world that he needed, and she would soon be gone—ripped from him like everything else had been before. She saw the distress in his dark blue gaze and delicately put her hand on his cheek, her hand cold and frail. After being in this hospital for so long, the pallor of her skin has faded, making her once vibrant and glowing skin, an ashen hue. Another tear welled in her green doe shaped eyes, and it slowly fell, but before it had the chance to make its path down her petite face, he bent slightly and silently kissed the tear from her slightly sunken cheekbones. A memory flowed into his mind, it was an unwelcome reminder of how much she has changed.

He remembered the day perfectly: golden sunshine warmed the mild air. All around them were wildflowers. There wasn't a town for miles. And as far as they could see, a field of daisies, tall grasses, and other wildflowers. He found this spot hiking months ago in winter and knew it would be the perfect spot to bring her. He had a blanket spread out among the daisies and Queen Anne’s lace (her favorite) and there she was gazing around wildly, smiling at everything. Suddenly she spread her hands wide to the sky with her angelic face to the sun, and laughed. It was the kind of laugh that was unhindered and free. She spun around in tiny gleeful circles until she noticed him watching her. She stopped at beamed at him— and it was at this very moment that he loved her.

Another wave of coughing and retching brought him back to the present moment. He watched her grimly as her body convulsed over the toilet once more. The melancholy memory drifted back away and once again out of reach. Soon, all he would have would be those memories taunting him with their beautiful times and wonderful moments that would slowly soil, from his own despair of her leaving him. Perhaps all angels must return to the heavens but he selfishly thought that he wanted to keep her.

Another melancholy memory tugged at him, it whipped at him, a saccharine thorn scraping his subconscious. After he took her to that golden field, it soon became their spot. It became their little piece of heaven— a secluded sanctuary that wrapped them in it’s warm, radiant, safe haven.

This memory danced, and swirled, until it fully took shape in his mind: She was there, of course, idly sweeping her hand across the tall grasses. She was absently humming a light and melodic tune as she walked. Gosh, even when she isn't trying she sounds beautiful, he thought.

She continued weaving mindlessly through the field, as content as she looked, he decided to also touch the tall swaying prairie grass as well. It was soft and firm, as if God and the universe had created it to be gentle but resilient. A lot like her, he mused.

As if she could sense his gaze, her radiant eyes shone in the sparkling light. He smiled expectantly at her, and in a flurry of movement, she twirled toward him. Her yellow sundress played around her legs, as if laughing with her. He grabbed both her hands in his, his dwarfing hers, and pulled her close. Looking down at her, his heart swelled. “I swear. I will never love anyone as deeply as I love you,” he whispered.

She stretched, slowly, up on her tip-toes, and lightly pecked his lips. At her touch, his heart faltered. As she pulled away, he spun her around, again earning her trilling laughter at his response. She smiled coyly at him and took a step back, then another, and another, until he felt like she was worlds away. He watched her expressive eyes and he felt like he might obliterate, if he didn't reach her. He met her in the meadow. Once he spun her around so her back was to his chest, he bent down, and rested his chin on her head. After a while the sun began to sink to the horizon, and her golden hair attracted the sun’s rays like a halo. Some time after, twilight was already in full bloom. The stars danced around, beginning their nighttime waltz. He gazed over at her sitting in the glen. The oily black of night, seemed to wrap around her, encasing her in the blanket-like-darkness. His once golden and shining angel, transformed into an avenging goddess. Once again the memory subsided, sliding away like a wave returning to the sea.

Reality set back in. She was better today, and by better he meant that she was able to keep down her jello for about 2 hours before her rattling coughs irritated her enough that the raw retching began. He sat by her the whole time, he patiently held back her long, blonde locks, feeling helpless. All he wanted was to protect her, to fight this terminal terror. Sometimes when he lay in the cot, beside her hospital bed, when the days were especially bad— he sometimes wished it were him. He wished she never had to suffer. He wished she would live. He wished it were him.

He remembered the day like it was yesterday—perhaps he always would. Perhaps this will be the one memory that will never fade, and this memory will never soil because it was never sweet to begin with. He wondered why the rotten memories were the ones that you remembered the best. This— this right here was the moment that his life—his future was ripped away. She hadn't been feeling well for months, she always played it down, claiming, he thought it was worse than it actually was. And every time she reassured him, he had a needling feeling of apprehension. The chest pain started shortly after the coughing. When that started he rushed her to the hospital and the doctors claimed it was bronchitis and to come back if it hadn't cleared up in a month or so. Months went by and she didn't get better. The antibiotics never worked. And she refused to go back. He watched her through it all. Then one day, he knew it was way worse than she had let on. They were climbing stairs, up to a star observatory and she started lagging behind him.

That’s weird, he thought. She’s normally so lithe, and her athletic, nimble body is normally bounding ahead of me and all the while, her tinkling laughter, floated down to me, teasing me to hurry up. She normally dares me to try to catch her.

But this time he reached the top of the stairs far quicker than she did. Once she reached that last step, he knew. He knew, in his bones, that it was more serious than she let him think. Her wheezing gave her away, she subtly bent at the waist, rasping breathes shuddering through her. Her panting made his veins grow cold with icy dread. Before she had a chance to react, he moved to her side. His left arm wrapped around, under her arm and around her back and with his other hand, he scooped up both her legs and carried her down all those traitorous stairs.

He drove her in silence, constantly glancing sideways at her, checking her for any visible injuries. Though he saw none, that anxious feeling still pounded against his rib cage, begging to be released. They had arrived.

The building rose up starkly against the rest of the landscape. Flower beds and manicured trees surrounded the structure. It felt like an abomination, being so close to the beauty of nature. Gazing up at the imposing infrastructure, he saw her hand daintily clutch at her chest. Mustering enough courage for the both of them, he calmly, and resolutely took her hand and led her in. The first thing that assaulted his senses was the smell. The stench of disinfectant was so pungent that it overwhelmed his whole self for a good 5 seconds. There was an overly perky receptionist in her mid thirties smiling at them, her name tag said Nancy. Nancy then preceded to ask them, for their names for the registrar. He saw her throat bob at the request. He quietly told the receptionist her information. The receptionist smiled, he found that her teeth were slightly crooked.

Once he gave Nancy their information, she motioned for them to take a seat. A shaky breath escaped his lips, as he reached out for her hand. She reached out and her hand shook slightly as she grasped his. The waiting room, had a bunch of inspirational posters on all the walls, which he thought was complete bullshit. If you come to this place, than no inspirational quote will help you. He cast a sidelong glance at her. She seemed very interested in the patterns on the carpet. The whole rest of the wait, his heart danced. Flipping and somersaulting, trying to maintain it’s steady rhythm. But it was no use, his body betrayed his beating heart, and gave in to the anxiety flowing through his veins.

The next 4 days consisted of doctor meetings, PET scans, CT scans, and consultations; and each result had the doctor’s brows scrunching closer and closer together— even the specialists where stumped. How—how could they not have caught this sooner? He hated these doctors. Hated them. They should have known, they should have tried harder. They said that it was an honest mistake, that the symptoms she posed were identical to bronchitis. They were sure that it was bronchitis. They were wrong. She had stage 4 lung cancer. She was terminal, and he would be left behind. And he hated them for it. They were the reason that he now doesn't have a future. The Memory drifted back, be he was certain that this one would surface again. This one will probably never fade, will never stop torturing him.

She felt good— really good—good enough that he felt safe enough to go home. He wanted to pick up the book she requested, To Kill a Mockingbird. Her eyes glowed when he brought up bringing it back for her. She loved this book. He went home— their home, and (accidentally) fell asleep. He was searching the house for it, and then did a batch of laundry. Shuffling through the house waiting for the clothes to dry, he sat on the couch and the next thing he knew, he fell asleep.

The next morning-early- like 4 or 5 in the morning, he sprinted to the car. He had to get her the book, had to see her. This was the first time he’d been away from her for more than 3 or 4 hours. Driving to the hospital felt like agony. The ride felt longer today, everything in hues of murky grey. The morning had not yet set in and night was refusing to let go of its grip on the world. Shadows seemed to cling to the road, toward the houses. The shadows swooped longer and more fully, hiding from the false light of the lampposts. Right when he pulled into the underground garage of the hospital, he knew it was wrong. It was a feeling, the kind that made his toes cringe. It was a feeling that hurt his gut. That feeling pulled him toward the door— pulled him to the receptionist desk. He signed his name in on autopilot (his name was the most of any visitors). His name repeated so often, that it took up 10 pages. So often that some people thought he was a resident. Today was different.

Today he did indeed feel like a resident. Today the nurses looked at him differently, they looked at him in a foreign way—was that pity? Yes, yes that was pity. He used to see that look when people looked at her, before, when they first found out; back when they still went out and tried to live. But that look… it twinged that gut feeling into action again. It pulled him faster, with more urgency.

It propelled him to her room, her suite. Relief washed through him in a cascading wave. There she was. Sleeping on her bed, her honey blonde hair spilling over her face. He crossed the room to her, “good morning” he whispered. But she didn't stir. He gently shook her cold wrist. Now her wrist was so slim, her bones protruded. He shook her wrist again. She still didn't respond. He moved close, dread and panic setting in. He frantically grabbed her narrow shoulders with both his hands and shook. He shook her so desperately that the bed rattled. “Hey!” he shouted, “Wake up! Please, please wake up!” While he shook her, her hair had shifted off her face. Her pale face lifeless and sallow, her sunken cheekbones jutting harshly against the soft pillow. But what really drew his attention was her eyes. Vibrant and once beaming, they now gazed at nothing. Her light was gone… her green eyes dull, glassy and vacant. Someone yelled… shouting followed. He thought it was him. All of a sudden, arms grabbed his biceps from behind. Probably from his outburst. His gaze never left her. He stared at her, devouring the sight of her. A burning sensation filled his eyes. Blink. Something wet dropped down his jaw. But still he stared at her. His vision blurred, salty, wet liquid welling in his eyes.

He silently cursed those tears that disrupted and blocked his view of her. Those hands still gripped him and with a jolt, he realized that they were trying to drag him away! They were trying to make him leave her. “No!” He screamed, “NO, I won’t leave her!” His voice raw with emotion. “You can’t make me leave her!” He pleaded to no one in particular. Something pricked his arm, but he payed no attention, he just kept trying to get to her. He kept struggling to move to her, to just see her, and just be by her. A heaviness filled his mind, clouding it, making everything unfocused and fuzzy. He stopped hearing coherent sounds, everything seemed to be underwater. He tried to swim. He tried to get to her. His vision tunneled. Darkness.

2 days later.

She’d left him. She is gone. He is alone. This mantra replayed on repeat through his brain. He never remembered leaving her side. The next thing he remembered was waking up in a bed. Not his bed. No, this was a foreign room, a room that smelled like disinfectant. He moved his fingers, gripping the stiff, starched sheets. White. White walls, white sheets, white skin. Just like her. Like an unwanted assault he remembered her. She was laying there. Perfectly still, peaceful even. Here skin a ashen pallor. White. Whiter than he had seen her in some time. In the memory he approached her in slow motion almost as if walking through quicksand, never able to reach her, to touch her. The memory of her laying dead ripped a new hole through his soul. The sting of her absence was everywhere. He couldn’t smell her anymore. She had the best smell, like honey and peonies. It was the kind of warm smell that lingered even when she left a room. But now even that is gone. It’s like she was wiped clean of this earth. How cruel of the people in this world to remove her. She was everything. She was life. She was the beating heart of this earth. Now how was he supposed to go on? He absently scratched his wrists. And he forgot.

The next thing he remembered was a nurse wrenching his hand off his wrist. Angry, red bloodied scratches marred his wrists. He didn’t remember doing it. He looked at the pooling blood, gently oozing from his open cuts. He remembered her. One time on a date she chose a bright ruby red lip color. He couldn’t stop staring at her lips. The way she seemed to smile brighter with that swatch or color. The way absently chewing her lip, drew his eyes— almost against his own will. The memory evaporated when the sting of antiseptic sizzled into his open cuts. He hissed and tried to pull away but the nurses hand was strong and true. He gazed deadly at the nurse. Her brown hair pulled tightly back into a neat bun. Something she would never do. She liked her hair down, free. Wild.

In a day the scratches had almost completely dissipated. The hospital must have thought him well enough to return to the cruel distorted world. He was able to visit her room once more. He picked up the copy of To Kill a Mockingbird, and he grabbed her wild flower bouquet. He drove on autopilot. The world without her seemed five shades duller, like the world now was draped in a sheet of mourning. Perhaps it was just him. He watched the cars go by, oblivious to the great tragedy that had just occurred. He glanced over at the dying bouquet of flowers. He found tiny pieces of her everywhere. In the breeze was her laugh. In the light was her blonde hair. In the grass was here eyes. in the wheat fields her tanned skin. He walked slowly trying to remember how to breathe. His feet knew the spot before his brain registered where he was. Their spot. The grass slightly matted down from their last visit. He gently stooped, and placed the dead wild flower bouquet in this spot. This, this right here would be her memory. It would live with him until he was done on this earth, and then he would remember he in the next universe. Before he left he grabbed one of the small white flowers. The Queen’s Anne Lace hung elegantly from his hand.

He hated being here. It was depressing. Not at all what she would want. When the group of imposters where done ‘mourning’ her, he walked up. He didn’t say anything. She already knew. He just quietly put the Queens Anne Lace on her casket. Walking away felt like a betrayal.

He got in his car. It dinged. The chiming rings seemed to reverberate and intensify his grief. The stupid sound continued insensately. He looked at what the annoying devise wanted. He looked down at the red blinking light: badgering him to put his seatbelt on. He ignored it. He pulled away from the cemetery’s curb. The day was raining and grey, matching his mood perfectly. He pulled onto the freeway. He signaled. He started turning. SMASH! A semi truck collided with his blue fiat. The rest happed in stilted time. He flew through the window. He felt no pain. The car— if you could still call it a car, was a crumple of glass and warped metal. The next thing he saw was her. Her eyes glowing with love. Tears streamed down her heart shaped face. She looked perfect. Wearing that white sundress that he saw her in when he first met her. She was drinking coffee from an orange mug at a downtown bistro— Bistro La Bella. Strange how he remembered that now. She reached toward him. He felt his tears stream down his face in perfect synchronization to hers. Her hands radiated a soft glow as she reached for him. He took her warm hand in his. Life. This was what she felt like warm, and vivid. As their hands touched, he felt a zing of electricity. He knew he was home.