Walking Between Stones

Interlude - Roses Are Red

It is my funeral.

Sparse gatherings of people are standing around my coffin as it is lowered into the ground. It is the sombre portrait out of every depressingly bleak funeral scene you see in the movies; from the people all in black, right down to the ominous falling rain.

People often relate their most emotional experiences in life to the scenes they see in films, and I have to wonder why. Is it so that they can relegate the pain to a more familiar tangible and not explore their own feelings, whatever they might be? When did this change? What did people do before the cinema came along and warped our perceptions and altered our memories to trigger images that aren't real to coincide with what is real?

I am beginning to wonder if the human race even remembers what emotions truly are anymore.

My view of the funeral is that of the camera loaded onto the floating platform of the crane far above. I effortlessly zoom in for the coveted close-up.

The rain is causing the faces of the mourners to blur, the black and white paint of a Monet running down the canvas. There is a minister present, complete with white collar and bible - yet, I am not in any way religious. However, this is a movie and the scene requires the token presence of a minister to add atmosphere to the funeral, a pathetic attempt to pull commercialized tears from the watching audience.

The minister's mouth is moving but there is no sound. Even the rain is silent. One by one, the faceless mourners step forward and toss red roses onto the coffin. The settled casket below is a glaringly bright white, adorned with a twisting vine of shiny gold that snakes its way around the edges and coils about the heavy brass handles. It's gaudy in its opulence.

The only vivid colour present is the red of the roses as they fall in slow motion and land softly on the smooth, curved lid of the coffin, a stark contrast to the world around which is without colour. As soon as the flowers leave the hand of each mourner, their face flashes into clarity for one brief second before fading back into that creepy visage of running paint.

Suddenly, I am there - physically there. I approach the grave with deliberately methodical steps, a single white rose clutched in my hand.

Only the minister now remains as I step up to the edge of the grave and look down. The minister's mouth is no longer moving; he is still and silent as he watches, hugging his precious bible to his chest. I look down and see that the top end of the coffin is open and I distinctly feel a sudden shock run through my body.

Andrew is lying inside, looking as peaceful as he did that day long ago when he died in my arms.

The scenery around me is now melting away, like a chalk drawing left out in the rain.

I stare down at Andrew's face. I am running out of time. I have so many things that I want to say, and yet, there's something preventing me from speaking.

I look down and notice that the thorns on the stem of my rose are digging into my skin, piercing the flesh. Blood flows freely from my fingers and runs down the delicate stem. Slowly the pristine petals are stained dark crimson, poisoned with blood.

I toss the rose onto the coffin and watch as it falls, crimson drops splattering onto the white surface as it lands.

Andrew opens his eyes and reaches out for the blood-stained flower.

I want to tell him to not take it, I want to scream and yell. I want to warn him.

But my screams are silent and can not reach his ears.

Andrew smiles serenely and holds the rose to his cheek, reverently stroking his skin with my cursed gift, slowly smudging more and more blood across his pale skin - back and forth, back and forth...

My hand continues to drip blood, the tiny droplets of life falling onto Andrew's face, onto his forehead, the bright liquid slowly forming into the shape of a bolt of lightning. Andrew's face begins to disappear, just as the others had. A tear falls from his eye as he is swept up into the swirling mass of black and white paint. The portrait is fading, once again leaving the canvas blank.

All I can think about is that lightning bolt on Andrew's forehead, created from my blood. I start to scream as I too begin to fade away.

The scene is finished and the director has called 'cut.' The movie is over.

I scream, on and on...

Even when the cameras stop rolling and the lights have long since burned themselves out, I scream...

Then there is nothing.

I open my eyes.