Bouquet

the road outside my house

My eyes started to sting as I watched the soapy surface of my bath water ripple. I felt myself begin to suffocate. Funny that I felt the same feeling outside of water, yet inside my house.

I squeezed my eyes shut and hurtled myself to the surface; a small wave gently fell over the side of the bathtub, leaving shiny puddles on the rose tiles. I rubbed my eyes and blinked until the stinging subsided. In this painful darkness, I only felt one thing. I needed to get out. Out of this bath, out of this house. Just, out.

I rubbed my body raw with my towel and slipped on my dressing gown, looping the tie in front of my waist. I then started walking. No particular destination in mind. My bare, wet feet left small footprints on the wooden passage and began to roughen once I had stepped foot outside onto my driveway.

It was dark twilight, and I could only see a few meters in front of me. I heard short melodies from birds hiding in the trees and violin song from the grasshoppers playing from behind the curtain of moss and other greenery.

A soft breeze hit me as I left the safety of the tall walls surrounding my yellow-flaked house and onto the tarred road. Lampposts, stationed every ten meters, dimly illuminated the desolate road, barren of all forms of life apart from a small trail of weeds growing through the cracks in their own little revolution. The faint rush of cars, the infamous harmony of people trying to get everywhere as soon as possible, tinged the peace a few kilometres away.

I made my way to the middle of the street, sitting on the fading line which cut the road in two. No cars would come here. They rarely did, even when the tar was heated up by the glaring sun. The street was only used by those living within the perimeter and those trying to find a shortcut.

Suddenly my head overflowed with all these thoughts, overpowering the zen I had felt a few seconds before. I let out a scream, ripping the silence — a long cry which remained in the air for a few minutes after I had closed my lips. Feeling a peaceful emptiness, I deflated and lay on the tar, legs outspread, arms by my side.

Despite the sticks and damp leaves digging into my bare skin, I lay there gazing up at the stars. I felt this serenity, and there and then I felt like I could die. I felt that nothing beyond this small spot would matter. I felt this tugging feeling, wishing that a car would drive up into this hidden street and not stop. But I knew that was impossible. No one ever used this street, except those who lived on it and those looking for a shortcut. I remained in the same position, eyes fixed on the sky.

My view warmed up with newfound light. The atmosphere around me filled itself up with a new sound, getting closer and closer. My breath stopped, waiting to feel. Then, the noise suddenly stopped. Silence invaded, and everything was what it had been before the sound. With a small addition of a new presence, which felt both menacing and welcoming.

The sound of a car door opening followed by the sound of expensive Italian footwear hitting the ground resounded across the street. I remained looking up, not daring to face the being close to me.

"Are you crazy?" said the being.

"Why on earth would you possibly say that?" I retorted.

"It may have something to do with you lying in the middle of the road at night in nothing but your dressing gown," the voice answered.

"Maybe. But, I have seen perfectly sane people do the same thing."

"Only in movies." The voice said, getting closer and closer. Then, the being sat down next to me, joining me on the road. After a few moments of no conversation, the voice said, "Well, to be perfectly honest, from this perspective, I feel-" his voice trailed off.

"At peace?" I finished.

"Yeah."

I turned my head in the being's direction. There, looking up at the galaxies speckling the sky, was a boy, of around 19 years of age. He soon turned his head to look at me, and I immediately straightened, scraping my scalp slightly upon the road, "Why did you take this road?" I asked.

"What a peculiar question," he remarked, moving his head back in line with the sky.

"Well, you see, no one uses this road, except for those who live here and those searching for a shortcut. But, I've never seen you before, so you can't live here, and there is no need for shortcuts this late at night. So, why did you take this road?"

"Well, you see, it might be for the same reason that you are lying on the road." He answered.

"What is that?" I retorted, raising an eyebrow.

"I think we both need to get away." I exhaled. He was right.

"Well, you're not wrong," I smiled, "Where are you planning on going?"

"Anywhere, really. I'm not sure. A half-hour ago I thought the seaside, but as I turned into this street, I realised I don't know which way is to the seaside." I giggled. "Do you by any chance know which way is the seaside?" I burst into another fit of laughter.

"No!" I laughed.

"What a pity," he chuckled, "We could've gone together." We both breathed in deep. The air one breathes in the middle of the street close to midnight next to a stranger is a different type of air than that which one breathes every day. It is untouched and pure and rejuvenating.

"What's your name?" I asked.

"Chris," he answered, "Yours?"

"Jade." In my peripheral vision, I saw him nod slowly.

"So," he said, after a few moments of stillness, "What now?"

"I don't know; you joined me," I answered.

"True." I turned my head the other way, staring at the neighbour's curb and the small graffiti sketches decorating it. Chris seemed to be a very nice guy. Then again, serial killers are also capable of being nice when you first meet them. But, despite all the warning I had received throughout my entire childhood concerning strange men and streets, I had never felt so safe and comfortable before. He understood me in my entirety.

"Are you just going to leave your car there?" I asked, still admiring the curb.

"Do you think that leaving my car in the middle of the road is more dangerous than having two people lie in its place?" he asked an air of humour in his voice.

"No, I don't mean-" I started.

"Well, whatever you mean," he interrupted, "I'm not getting up," he added a little while later, "I don't think I ever want to."

He never did.

I still remember the car lights and the blaring beeps. Still feel the glass cut my damp skin, followed soon after by the feeling of the paramedic's hands gracing my shoulders, still feel the tears and still hear my own screams.

Now, the street is visited not only by those who live on it, or those wishing to find a shortcut but also by those coming to mourn. New graffiti, a cross, name, and date, decorated the curb.

I often go and sit in the street, my eyes stinging from the soapy suds and old tears, close to midnight. Not to find peace, but to remember what peace had felt like. And to remind me that everything is transient.