Chapter Text
The wind pressed the paper against his face, as if the paper was shouting, “I am here!” Lucian peeled the paper off his face and read the chicken scratch briefly, narrating in his head, “How could someone write this sloppily?” and “Is this even legible?” then letting out a scoff, balling up the paper into a crumbly, firm ball of disregard, which he tossed carelessly.
He sits in the previous spot you sat in, legs crossed and prickled by the rough bench, back relaxed, as he continues to read the book he took out from his mysteriously large inner pocket within his blazer. What an oddball.
An undefined silence seeped into the mind of Lucian. All of the lingering thoughts about you were canceled out by the whispering wind and the greatest silencer, the Earth’s invisible hum.
Towards a different area of the park, you cozied up against a smoother bench with a shiny white gloss, somehow unstained. The bench you sat in was hugged by the gazebo, which was a shade of pristine white that reminded you of those lavish estates you would see on your morning walks to lectures.
The wind swayed its arms to fan the soft and strong scents of the garden’s bountiful flowers, flowers filled with great vivacity, a vivacity to dance along with the arms of the wind. Tulips dominated the tiny yet grand patch the garden offered, yet one particular tulip stood out to you. Out of the dominating pinks that stomped across the stage, this tulip in particular was white with red lines, similar to a peppermint.
You shifted your gaze away from the tulips to your draft. A unharmonious harmony in the making. This piece was going to be the piece that symbolized a minute yet massive culmination of your ability to compose eloquent, divine pieces. And to finally have your piece played, or even lead the work of bringing into life physically– conducting it. You imagined yourself conducting, viscous slices in the air with your arms, as you gracefully, yet flashily swayed along with the tempo, you reached the end, and a pause. A pause of victory. The crowd goes wild, standing ovations, where the light buries your face, and you receive the compliments and claps, all where the greatest… potion-maker?
Your daydream of victory and acknowledgement concludes abruptly with your failure to make up a term on the spot for “potion-maker”. You scoffed at yourself (in a serious manner for some reason…) and ignored the silly mess up to frame it as an excuse to glance at the peppermint tulip.
The tips of your fingers brushed the petals of the tulip. The petal felt foamy, the standard squishiness of petals. You cupped the entire flower into your palms, hugging it tenderly with the warmth of your hands.
“Ouch.” You felt a jolt of pain in your hands. You still continued to protect the flower with one hand, and ripped the flower out of the ground with your other hand, revealing the shriveled roots.
You remained in place, staring at the tulip. It stung. Cold. Yet, mesmerizing.
Your odd trance abruptly ended when you noticed a metallic scent, almost coppery, on your palms from the tulip. The smell was pungent. Confusing. Abrupt. It twisted and scrunched your nose and face in confusion and in concern.
You peered over at your shoes and were surprised to see drops of glossy, bright red dripping onto the grass and staining your shoes. Your hands started to shake uncontrollably, tremors great like earthquakes, heavy breaths weighing your lungs, and internal screaming, as your head spun in mania.
The more you panicked, the more gushed out– blood. The intense drips transformed into stronger streams of pungency. The vamps of your shoes transformed from a dirt-stained brown into a mix of rough dirt, mud, grass, and the coppery liquid.
You hurried away from the garden area. Leaving behind your work and the blood-stained tulip.