Bloom

12: The Dream

Tulip's high up in the sky, flying with no wings. Floating, reaching their hands out to touch the clouds. The clouds roll like milky waves, collecting the sun's rays on their delicate blanket surface. The bluebird sky dips down into a midnight purple. The sun is still high up, raining down an orange hue. They look down at their hands, bits of cloud swirling about in their clutch. The clouds snake up their arms, coiling in a swirled motion. The sky gets foggier until they become engulfed in clouds. Their vision becomes blurry, then disrupted by darkness.

Their eyes shoot open.

In front of them lies a wilted flower. The crisp petals show a faded yellow colour. Sunflower. Gradually they rise from their lying position, then rub their eyes. On instinct they check their hands. Nope, not a sign of clouds or fogginess. Just a dream. Is that the second one? They try to pull back into the trenches of their memory in hopes of remembering, but it's nothing. They know it had something to do with freedom. They sigh, fixing their toga. Parts of it are now ripped on the bottom. A frown appears on their face. How much longer will this last?

When they check their back, it's covered in wilted sunflowers; the same as the lonely one on the floor. They've figured something out. Whenever the flowers wilt, the pain dies with it. A momentary bliss for their body, until someone dies and a fresh new bloom takes its place. They take this opportunity to stand and stretch. Aged aches crack out a sigh from their body, making them exhale, content.

For the next few minutes, they experiment by seeing how far they can walk into the billowed room's "gullet" before the light gets too far. They've clocked around forty seconds. The room seems endless, as predicted. They start to wonder if this space has always been a prison for unlucky deities that dared crossed paths with Mortelline. The lamp above looks old-fashioned, yet somehow retains an everlasting bright glow. How many doors are in here? Their hands guide them along an invisible wall, tracing every edge to feel if the texture changes, if there's a chipped part of the wall, something. But knowing how vast the area is would take them ages to find a sliver of a crack. They stroll back to the blanket and towel, right on time as the first flower blooms.

Though only one petal shows, Tulip recognizes its shape, its droopy appearance. They reach over to where the book lays in hiding, but their hands cannot find it. Panic sets in. Their hands become more frantic, blindly searching for any sign of it. No, it has to be here. I always put it here! They bend over to try and get a better grasp, but then comes the onsetting ache. Still, they search more. I have to find it, I have to! They feel their temples starting to get damp. Anxiety surges. Their hands transition to patting the ground firm. Finally they make contact with a hard, elevated surface. They let out a 'phew' sound, pulling the book to their feet. If I would've, if I lost it, Pepper may have... they shake their head. Why would it come to them? They ignore it and start flipping the pages. The flower names are in alphabetical order, so they search for the 'S'. P, Q, R, then finally, they find it.

"Snowdrops belong to the Amaryllidaceae family. They are some of the first flowers to bloom in the beginning of spring. Snowdrops possess a total of three white petals, with smaller petals on the inside, and greenish markings. They are not an edible flower; the bulbs are specially toxic to animals. It is not wise to consume these flowers."

They frown upon reading the word "toxic". Last time I was in excruciating pain from the pesky, "toxic" buttercups. With only one petal appearing so far, pain has been reduced to a needle poke. But will it become more severe? Only time will tell for Tulip.

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Their back has now sprouted a full bloom of spring once again. Snowdrops droop like someone's plucked the feathers from a swan. Thankfully the ache is minor. Today has been the most quiet it's ever been. Not a single footstep, a door squeak, a soft giggle. They recall Pepper mentioning how they have to tend to Mortelline's garden. The size must be immeasurable.

Garden... the word is foreign to Tulip, yet somehow they know what they are. A habitual space for nature to frolic in green and whatever other colours plants persist. They know what the plants feel like; tactiles being rubbery, soft, or pointy. Soil beneath their feet would sink with every step, especially if it was battered by rain a few hours prior. It emits an earthy, damp aroma that's bliss to nostrils. They blink, stunned at what they can remember. Then their eyes travel to where the small door would appear. What if Pepper is waiting outside the door, listening for my answer?

They test it out by tapping the ground twice, then wait. No answer. They tap again. Still no response. They try three times, wait a few seconds, then tap the floor three times again. Empty. They sigh, drumming their fingers along the floor. Then they pick up on an aesthetic sound; a beat, rhythm. So they maintain the tempo, tapping one two three, one two three, over and over. They try a different beat with their other hand. One two, one two, mixed with the one two three, one two three. A melody formulates from the fingertips. It echoes throughout the room; an audience clapping their quiet hands. They change up the rhythm, counting at a different pace, trying a new melody. Each one interlocks with the next, a smooth transition over. They finish off with a loud slap of their palm on the ground, and look up.

The room is mute. The light above sways. Tulip's eyes travel down to their fingers, now pink from use. Touching their fingers is a still, mirrored version of themself. A clear reflection staring back up at them.

They don't know why, but rather than asking about the flower's meaning, they just want to tell someone about the dream they had. Just so that someone else could remember it for them.