The Colour of Petals — By Konstantin Chterev

The seeds landed on Tuesday and showered the Earth in cosmic dandelion dust.

*

A flower should have colours. A stem should grow tall and straight, and its petals should bloom bright and bold. Lots of things that should now don’t. I look out my window each morning over a floral sea that lacks any quality I have ever known. There is no colour. The stems curve and hang. Scientists argue whether the petals even exist or whether the side effects of touching inanis pendula may result from foreign single-celled bodies over the plant itself. 

*

The seeds sprouted after the morning rain and blossomed into a scattering overgrowth while I tended my garden.

*

I’m not doing okay. I tell my friends, those left, not to worry about me because it’s nothing to worry about, but I am writing for peace of mind. I feel tired. My motivation reels for seconds then disappears for hours. I turn on the news for a sight of familiar faces, but the powerful lack the empathy I need and the sympathy for the weak whose suffering is my own. I turn it off. I close the blinds as the sight of fluttering seeds in the air sends my stomach lurching. I read books where I can. The characters have started to feel more lifelike than the neighbours beside me. I wish I had known earlier that variety is luxury. 

*

They pierced my hand as I watered my rose and crawled deeper with sticky tentacles, pulsing as if dancing, flesh falling as the more I writhed, the faster I sealed my fate.

*

I am sapped of optimism. It doesn’t matter if I sleep five hours or nine. I wake unsatisfied. I try to find time to myself throughout the day, but even then, it feels like it passes in a blink. I try everything, variations, reading, writing, music, doing nothing at all. Nothing. 

*

They rend me while I’m still alive, pick me to pieces from within, millimetre sparks that tickle the skin like sand under linen.

*

I think your struggles are very understandable.

I can take some time this evening whenever works for you.

Do you want to call and talk it through? I love you so much, and I don’t want you to feel alone.

*

They made me bleed through tears of scarlet, weeping as I tumbled into the arms of those I feared I had called too late, those who reached back all the same.

*

Things are okay. Not great. No. That will take some time. 

But the curtains are drawn once more. The seeds still fall, but every dusk drowns their rain under a beautiful pink canvas. Scientists state inanis pendula has trichromic petals but now debate if they are a colour we cannot process. I am one of many pierced by them. I waver. 

Sometimes it is comforting. Sometimes shared suffering only comforts so much. In either case, familiar voices or faces keep me steadfast. I have settled into few variations, and they are enough for now. I write. I dance. As much as my muscles allow me to. They say the pain won’t subside for a while, and it sticks to my frame like cold lingers on a morning walk. There are days where I can’t move much. Days where I can’t think much. But the days I can are worth it. They give me something to look forward to.

I intend on being there the day they leave.

I’m hoping it’s a Tuesday.

AUTHOR’S BIO

Konstantin Chterev is a Bulgarian-British writer and an extreme environment psychologist. He has assisted in Arctic expeditions and researching the challenges our minds face when exploring the cosmos. His latest publication, Valentine, can be found in Missed Connections by Rebel Iris.