Clear Skies

Epilogue: Solipsism

sol·ip·sism /ˈsäləpˌsizəm/

noun; the view or theory that the self is all that can be known to exist.

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A blue butterfly flittered among lush gardens. The insect alighted on a blooming azalea. Rays of the morning sun shimmered on lingering dewdrops. The sunshine sheared through morning mist, fresh off the roaring sea.

The clash of the waves could be heard from anywhere on the island, from the center where I stood to the heights of the palace touching the clouds. I was close enough to touch its bricks. My toes curled into the dirt, and I looked away from the pillar-shaped palace.

The garden within the palace's inner gates held sprawling bushes and trees. Rows of tulips flanked the pathway behind me. Thorny rose bushes hugged the high gates. Silence fell where, normally, the clank of guards' armor would chime.

A gentle touch tucked a white azalea behind my ear. "Good morning."

Brown curls framed her kind smile. The queen's crown was a modest gold circlet. My fingers brushed the soft petals in my hair. She had no business speaking to me. "What do you want, mother?"

The Queen of Atlantis chuckled. Her silky-smooth fingers filled the holes between my own. "Is it wrong of me to want to spend time with my daughter? Your father would say so, but he's not here."

Her voice lowered to a shrill whisper, which suggested she visited me against his orders. I glanced around the gardens. Was their emptiness her doing, also? "Why would you want to see me?"

"I always want to see you!" She moved behind me, one hand on my shoulder and the other playing with a particularly stubborn tuft of white hair at my left temple. She was careful not to disturb the azalea, I noticed. "How are you feeling?"

"...Lonely."

"Oh," she said, her pout plain in her words, "that's tragic. I'm here for you. Tell me more. You don't have anyone to talk to, do you?"

"No. I have three friends, but they don't visit. I don't want to bother them, either."

"But friends they are. Who wouldn't want to see you, dear? I promise you don't have to be lonely. I'm here now."

I pricked my finger on a rose bush and watched the blood run. "You said that already."

Mother rounded to face me from the front. She clutched the skirts of her red velvet dress and bit her scarlet-painted lip. "Talk more. Please. Let's get breakfast - blueberry pie, your favorite! I want to hear more from you, _ _ _ _ _ _!"

The word was distorted like a disrupted radio broadcast. I blinked. Her visage flickered. "What?"

"I said we need to talk more, _ _ _ _ _ _."

An exhale escaped my nostrils.

"I would," I said, "if you were real."

And it all crumbled: the palace, the gardens, the sea, the sky. My mother. The fake world unfurled for the truth. The cloudless blue sky had a still image of an afternoon sun. Light sparkled on the bars of the Gilded Gate piercing the sky. Soft green grass and tiny flowers clustered around a brook. A white violin and bow lay beside my bare feet.

Being trapped in the Spirit World's excuse for an afterlife meant I could transform the landscape into whatever my mind desired. I did not want this. Those words of comfort were not from my mother; they were creations of my own mind. It was impossible for those poorly-crafted shades of memories to fool me.