Fiction...

Yellow Roses. 

My eyes fluttered awake to a bright morning sunshine gleaming through the thin crack between the wooden sill and shade of the window above my own personal queen bed. The narrow light flooded its whitish golden hue into a room much more recently familiar with the darkness. 

I rolled over to the blaring sirens of my first 8 a.m. alarm. I laid there, quietly staring at the ceiling as the next one followed at 8:07 a.m. And again, motionless at the 8:11 a.m. tone. But at 8:15 a.m., when the fourth and final morning wake-up sounded, I rose up like the big girl I was supposed to be, sitting crisscross-applesauce in bed as I swallowed my handful of pre-breakfast pills. I gagged down the green, red, and grey pills with the few ounces of my leftover lukewarm water from the rainbow “Keep Your Head Up” mug which someone anonymously dropped  on my front porch a few weeks earlier along with a bouquet of yellow roses. And those roses... those poor roses now rested their limp stalks above my copper kitchen sink, soaking in their unchanged rotting water downstairs. I hated those flowers and their fake golden dyed petals, but I couldn’t throw them away. I always struggled throwing flowers away, even though I loathed their rapid decay. I hated the vibrance and comfort that they were supposed to bring into my dark home but simply couldn’t. Flowers are for funerals, and I am not dead yet.

A text chimed in on my phone which rested, charging on the nightstand table. I ignored the ping as I slid into my black fuzzy slippers that sat idle to my bed frame. Scratching my bald scalp, I walked through the disgustingly bright hallway on my way to the bathroom. I stepped on the scale forgetting that I removed its batteries the morning before. I don’t know why I stepped on the scale. Force of habit, I guess. Although it didn’t read any numbers, I felt lighter as I met my bony reflection in the shower window. 

I changed into a boxy, size medium sweater which covered the loose waistline of my size 26 FRAME light-washed jeans. They were distressed which, I guess, was the only thing fitting about them right now. In silence and darkness, I blindly applied my Bobbi Brown foundation and bronzing powder in a weak but intentional attempt to lift my pale complexion. With a custom-made hairbrush, I combed a stranger’s yellow locks, positioning the wig on top of my head. It itched so badly my brain felt it. I wore it for affect, but it was as fake as my first ID in college. Everyone knew it too. 

I unplugged the charger from my phone illuminating the home screen clock which displayed 8:51 a.m. and a text from Lorraine reading “Can’t wait to see you today! Be there at 9. I SERIOUSLY can’t wait to see your beautiful face in such a beautiful place.” It’s not her fault, but I could wait. I didn’t want to go. Lorraine loved art, but I knew my eyes weren’t going to adapt too friendly towards the bright colors of the acrylics, the vibrance of shimmering frames, the shapes of plump Victorian women smiling in their corseted gowns.

I lugged down the 21 beige carpeted steps, dragging my hand along the empty walls of my stairwell. It was now 8:53 a.m., and I knew Lorraine wouldn’t be late. Seven minutes wasn’t long enough to sit down for breakfast. That didn’t matter though, because while my stomach growled at me, I still had no appetite. I propped my bony butt in the middle seat of my kitchen island, staring at the flowers above the sink as I noticed the synthetic dye of the yellow roses had now begun to seep towards the perimeter of each petal. I wasn’t ready to throw them away yet. I knew that the rotten fragrance of their water might linger long enough to force the handful of pills up from my empty stomach in a hurl. So, the flowers sat there, just like me. Weak and wilted. Colorless and fallen. 

It was 8:59 a.m. when I heard the essentially silent motor of Lorraine’s sky-blue hybrid pull into the freshly paved concrete of my cul-de-sac. She hopped out of the driver seat with a glimmering smile and a bouquet of yellow roses. Of course. 

Lorraine had always been so vivacious. I hated her for it now though. 

I met her out front, jamming house keys into the lock of my door. 

“Good morning pretty lady!” she blurted.

“It definitely is a morning.” I responded, unamused. 

“These are for you!” She shoved the flowers in my face and held her other hand on my back. I placed them on the white rocker that sat in front of the bay window which would otherwise see into my living room, if the shades weren’t drawn.

“Don’t you want to put those in some fresh water?” 

“No, we’ll just be gone a few hours. Right?” I questioned her, half-hoping that this excursion wouldn’t last longer than an hour or two and half-hoping that we’d be gone long enough for some passer-byer to steal them. I fucking hate flowers.

I hated art too. I didn’t want to go. The drive to The National Museum in Oslo was just a short 15-minute commute from my house in Frogner. The ride felt long today though as Lorraine excitedly rattled off the details of her new relationship, trying to distract from any potential silence between us. She knew in silence we’d both awkwardly avoid what’s really going on. You know? The nine constantly enlarging tumors in my liver. 

My stomach roared at me as we walked into the quiet museum. Lorraine took out a 500 Norwegian Kroner bill and paid for the both of us. Before, that wouldn’t have phased me, but now it felt like she was paying in pity. 

The blue museum walls underneath the large paintings were so damn ugly. They were that lame deep blue that I subconsciously imagine every time that someone mentions they are "feeling blue." 

Lorraine obnoxiously led me from room-to-room acting like the overly animated college student who guided us around school when we first met on our campus tour eight years back. I let her do it, though. She had good intentions. I just detested this place, these rooms, those heartbreaking blue walls. 

We sauntered through aisles of paintings and sculptures. I angrily stared at these supposedly magnificent shapes, rolling my eyes at the tiny informational notecards beneath them. These concise prompts acted like eulogies, detailing the stories of what once was something so beautiful, a life that only exists now in a state of dry, unmoved decay. I felt like a stranger at a cemetery, removed from the real existence, vitality, the soul of these pieces. 

It was 11:09 a.m., and while Lorraine’s animation seemingly escalated each extra minute we stayed, fatigue weakened my every step. My heavy breaths filled the air, grasping for energy from a place deeper than the bottommost space in my lungs. I began to sweat in an instant of incredible nausea. The wig itched my head. Why was I even wearing it? Everyone knew it was fake. 

Lorraine saw my tired demeanor and told me we’d visit one final painting before heading home. 

“I saved the best for last!” She eagerly lured me into one last blue room. By Lorraine’s instruction, I closed my eyes before viewing this special piece. 

“Okay, look!” I blinked heavily as my eyes adjusted to the florescent lighting shining its cruel brightness above the piece. 

I stared blankly at it while Lorraine’s voice murmured nonsensical sensations of enchantment and amazement in the background. My breaths began to exhale shorter and louder in an unexpected, nervous reaction. My throat tightened and I felt my body quiver as I stared at him, at me. The sign below this particular painting read, “The Scream.”

My palms clammed up. I couldn’t control it. There was something growing inside of me, literally. I gasped for air as beads of sweat crawled beneath my wig, falling onto the back of my neck. I couldn’t move. 

His bald head. His slim face. His depressed fear. His isolation. I was looking in a mirror. I couldn’t control myself. His nature choked me as I unwillingly ripped the wig from my damp head and fell to the floor on my weak knees, sobbing. Tears flooded the ground beneath me, and I sat there in sad, puddled water just like the wilted yellow roses above my copper kitchen sink.