The Liberosist

Part Three

Part Three: "Words cause as much devastation as a tsunami, yet people splash around as if they are puddles."

Gemma once painted freckles onto my cheeks, just under my eyes, and told me that they were very carefully planted flower seeds, so that when I cry, the seeds are watered and sprout into a whole garden. "But they are not permanent."

She shrugged. "Real flowers aren't either. You've got to find a way to keep your own garden alive in your own way."

It's odd, but those who are set on destroying every beautiful thing in my life are those who actually water my beautiful garden.

Contrary to popular belief, I am not a heartless monster. I don't prefer to be alone. Just because I've never loved someone doesn't mean I don't know how to love or that I don't want to. I'm not an all-powerful being who understands how the heart works, and I'm not stupid enough to believe that you do, too. I would give anything to not be different and to just fall head over heels just to know that I can, but I do not control the heart and I do not pretend to, so that is why my sleeves are rolled up.

Once again I am alone, because I am "infected." I laugh dryly at my joke as I walk around the neighborhood park, but I stop once I see him. He's huddled under a tree, reading, and it looked almost like a painting that has come to life. The sunlight streams through the tree branches, reflecting green on his tan skin and feathery brown hair. The breeze only messed his hair further, the leaves blowing softly around him. Despite the warm weather, he was wearing a sweater, and that's when I noticed his sleeves.

His are down. His sleeves are down. He is new and unknown and his sleeves and his head and his lips and his hopes are down. Is he like me?

Do I come down to meet him, or do I raise him up?

Or can I convince him to meet in the middle?

Or will he be disgusted by me, and I will be hurt once again? There's only one way to know. I pick up a blade of grass and use it as an imaginary paintbrush to create imaginary freckles with imaginary paint, just in case he decides to water my garden.

Then, with my sleeves rolled up and my smile up and my head up, I march up to him.