The sea of people moves in choppy waves along the street. They all blend together into corresponding colours of blacks and browns and grays. It is a truly boring sight to look on at such blandness. But coming into view is a lovely vision. A head of bright red appears and stands out against everything like a daisy in a rose bush. The sea of choppy waves seems to part and flow even more smoothly as she floats past. She is a mermaid in a school of fish, an angel in a world of demons, a burst of colour on a blank canvas. Red hair and a yellow sundress should clash (God knows they clash against this crowd) but she makes them work. She can make a burlap sack work.

The farther she walks, the more looks she gets, the more stares and glares and gazes of envy that follow her. It is all ignored. She swims past with a purpose. But, what is this purpose? What could someone as remarkable as her possibly have to worry about? She stops a bland man and looks to be asking him something. She grips his arm desperately, as if the question she is asking means life or death. He replies like a knife, shakes her off and disappears into the sea. Obviously getting to where he needs to be is much more important than some desperate girl. She continues to swim—the sea doesn’t seem to be parting as smoothly as it once did. She stops another person a few minutes later. And then another and another and another. She tries to move faster but the waves are too strong. The red is mixing with the gray and her extraordinary appearance is becoming more ordinary by the minute. She is drowning.

Another person, and another and another-

SHE BURSTS FROM THE SEA. Oh, land! How you have been missed! Concrete, it has been too long since you have been last seen. She can run now, she can move freely, she can breathe! There are no more waves to knock her down and keep her trapped. She is no longer drowning.

-

The scene has changed. The contrast of bright red on sterile white hurts the eyes. People in white are stopped and consulted and they point her even more closely to the place where she needs to be. A curtain is ripped open and inside…inside is an identical head of red hair. His eyes are closed and there are tubes everywhere designed to pump ever lasting life into his veins. He is weak.

The girl slowly lowers herself into a chair by the bed. Hesitantly, she picks up a pale hand and brings it to her face, which still hasn’t been seen. Her shoulders shake as she clutches the hand ever so tightly. The man’s eyes flutter open. They are bright blue. He smiles weakly and takes his hand from her grip. Her head lowers to the bed and she rests it on her folded arms as she continues crying. The man rests his pale hand on her head and strokes her hair. It is an understanding hand; a reassuring hand; a forgiving hand.

-

And then there is black. Everyone is in black. They are all wearing sadness like it’s in style, except the red headed girl who stands out against the crowd like a beacon of light in a fog. She is a lighthouse. But who is she guiding home? Who did she save from crashing? How can she possibly save anyone when she can barely save herself from being cloaked in such misery and guilt?

She is standing away from the crowd. They all surround the six foot deep crevice in the ground like vultures. All the women weep and all the men look away, wishing they could weep as well—The Mourners. The red headed girl stares at them with contempt. It must be impossible for any of them to possibly feel what she is right now. The ache inside her chest must be unbearable as the raw sadness eats away at her soul. None of them were there like she was when he died. They can’t understand. No one could understand.

Each of The Mourners walks past the hole in the ground. They all toss in their flowers. Each rose lands on the coffin with a soft thud. As they all move slowly away, the red headed girl walks up to the freshly dug grave. She lowers her head and stares into the ground at the box. How awful to think that once inside the box was something alive. But now it’s just an empty shell. It’s like returning a toy to the store broken, without the batteries.

The roses sit in a monotonous pile on top of the mahogany. They are ugly flowers that are full of sameness. The head of red pulls out her flower from inside her coat. The daisy falls from her fingertips and floats down to land among the roses. For the first time, the girl raises her face to look at the sky. The sun reaches down to kiss her tear stained cheeks. Her bright blue eyes are red rimmed and puffy. She closes them and takes in the sun’s warmth.

She jumps as a drop of water lands on her nose. It slides down her face and onto her neck. She looks up at the sky. The sun has disappeared and has been replaced by grey clouds instead. Another drop of water, and another and another. The girl holds out her hand to them as they gather into a little puddle in the middle of her palm. It’s raining.

For the first time, she smiles.

It is done.

(Source: scribbles-and-scratches)