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*Aramis is still there when you wake* |
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*Your eyes flutter open, and you're temporarily blinded. You're convinced you haven't been sleeping long, but sleeping out in the open sun is sure to do that to you. Aramis is not more than two feet away, sitting up, with his knees pulled up to his chest. He's leaning forward, the cigarette (still unlit) between his fingers, staring off into the distance. You don't let out any indication that you're awake. Instead, you watch as he leans over and reaches into the overly large burlap sack he travels with, pulling out several small bags. An overwhelmingly aromatic scent washes over you as he unties the strings around them and rummages through the contents. They smell like--rose petals? No. Can't be. Why would someone like Aramis carry around rose petals? Your interest piqued, you narrow your eyes in order to better make out what you can see through your slightly blanched vision. Aramis reaches into his bag again and pulls out what looks to be an unmarked jar of honey. What the...? you wonder to yourself. What on earth is he doing? Slowly, Aramis gets to his feet and stretches, arching his back slightly. He puts the woefully damaged cigarette back into his left pocket and puts his hand to his forehead. He scans the immediate area, walking every few feet and picking up a rock, tossing it aside, smoothing out the grass. Now, you're more than confused. Aramis returns to his smaller bags and pulls out a handful of (you were right!) pinkish/beige rose petals. Their sweet smell is nearly overwhelming. In your mind, you're taken to a place where anywhere could be Eden. And as you continue to watch, Aramis leans over and opens the jar of honey. He dips his fingers in, gets back on his knees, and begins smearing the grass before him with the sticky sweetness. Carefully, with almost neurotic detail, he begins placing the rosepetals upon the grass. Inch by inch, centimeter by centimeter, he adjusts them, until that certain spark is realized in his eyes, and he deems them in the right place. Every now and then, he reaches into another bag, pulls out rose petals of a different color, and places them in a similarly freverent manner. You can only watch in amazement and barely notice how the morning sun eases into an early afternoon sky, so mesmerized are you by your host's tireless dedication. All too soon, it seems you are standing in a field of rose petals and honey, the sweet smell attracting bees and butterflies alike, and they swarm in an unnaturaly fixed pattern. You can no longer hold back your curiosity. But just before you make your current state of consciousness known, Aramis stands up in the dead center of this brightly colored field. He places his sticky, honeyed hands on his hips and takes a look around, breathing in deeply. As if knowing all along you were awake, he turns around and looks at you with a broad, innocent smile, one that seems almost sinful to be so displayed on the face of an adult. "Would you like to see it?" he asks. You nod. He wipes his right hand on his pants in a feeble attempt at cleaning the honey away, and offers it to you. Right now, you don't even care enough to turn it away. As you are helped to your feet, Aramis walks you through carefully thought-out empty spots in the field, directing you back to the top of the hill. "Careful now," he says quietly, shoving the small, empty bags and similarly empty jar of honey into the burlap sack. As you reach the top of the hill and look down, your breath becomes caught in your throat.*
"Do you like it?" Aramis shouts from the bottom of the hill, picking up his shirts from the floor, dusting them off, and putting them back on. You can't even answer. From this height, it becomes gloriously clear what he'd been working on. It's a portrait--an entire, beautiful, painstakingly-detailed portrait of a young woman. A daisy-shaped ring of white and yellow butterflies flitters their wings just above her left ear, breathing life into the already seemingly animated picture. Her lips are composed of the softest pink you'd ever imagined, and her eyes seem to stare into your own. Her skin is aglow in the sunlight, and the flashing of the sun's rays against the heoneybees' wings give the illusion of a halo around her head. Surely, this is a masterpiece the world's greatest artist would envy.*
"It's Kissie," Aramis confirms, trudging back up the hill. "I told her once, a long time ago, that I wanted to paint her portrait. But then I had a dream that my canvaas was the earth, and I'd done her image up in rose petals and honey. Though she isn't with me anymore, she's still in my heart. And there she shall remain, all the days of my life."
*You look over at Aramis. There's more to this 'Kissie' person than he's letting on, and he's let on an awful lot lately. Slowly but surely, you're convinced, he'll come clean about who she is and just how much she affected his life. But now is not the time for asking. He pretends to scratch at his nose, but you can see a single tear glide down his face before being caught by his hand. Heartless, my rear, you smile to yourself. He's got a heart bigger than he'd like to admit.*
"I've got to get going," he says with a small laugh. "I'm a bit hungry. Maybe you can meet me up at the Frogg's Throaat for dinner, hm? See you then."
*You watch as he walks off with a wave, and you wonder, what on earth has made him so very happy lately.*
 Bleeding Apocalypse · Tue Feb 15, 2005 @ 04:20pm · 0 Comments |
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