Rosa Rubicundior

Rosa Rubicundior

prologue

---

In the beginning, there was nothing.

Well, that's not strictly true. There was a box.

A cardboard box. And a door.

Painted a crimson red with a deep blue doorhandle.

It wasn't nice. If I knew anything about design, I would definitely tell you why it wasn't nice. But I can't. I don't know anything about design. Me knowing anything about design doesn't change the fact it wasn't nice. Usually when you see nothing that isn't nice, like the local bully or your friend's terrible haircut or a fresh corpse, you look away. 

I couldn't look away from this door. Well, yes, I could physically look away. There was just nothing else to look at. It reminded me of Rosa, and allowed me to forget about the fact I had no idea where I was. 

A cardboard box. And a door. 

A cardboard box.

And a door.

Crimson red with a deep blue doorhandle. Like Rosa.

If I thought about these things hard enough, then I'd definitely forget that there was no floor, or ceiling, or walls. I'd be able to move around casually. I wouldn't be frozen in one spot of nothingness, sweating. 

But I was. 

I wouldn't say I'm the kind of person with many fears or phobias. I'm really just a rational, boring person. And rational, boring people have perfectly rational, boring fears of falling into an abyss of nothing. 

Not that I was about to fall into an abyss of nothing. I knew I'd be fine. I had a cardboard box and Rosa's door. So decided I should open the box. Nobody else told me to.

Inside the box were a number of things - a yellow pair of scissors, an entirely blank photograph, an empty notebook, a pencil, and a red rose in bloom. Before I had proper time to examine these further, the box shrunk itself. What was once from my foot to my knee in length now fitted comfortably in my pocket. It seems I had equipment. And nobody gets equipment when they don't need it - it's for a specific purpose. Like a pickaxe for mining or a nurse's outfit for nursing or a cookbook for cooking or a megaphone for being a loud, obnoxious asshole. 

A purpose. If I had been given a purpose, then Fate or God or Allah or Rosa or the Doctor wouldn't let me fall into this abyss. Unless of course I was just being played with by a higher being, ready to strike me down if I ever gained any sort of confidence in my surroundings or survival. If that was the case, there was nothing I could do. Perhaps take solace in the fact that nothing I had ever done in my life had ever been my fault, that I hadn't done anything wrong, that the demons were against me from the start. But I was a little restless and didn't bother to ponder the ramifications of leaving nothingness behind any longer.

With a cardboard box in my pocket, I opened the door.