A Natural Death
by Ryan Brosmer
“Today started off strange, thanks only to myself and a handful of strangers. It’s Valentine’s Day and the streets were filled with vendors standing by buckets filled with roses. The crimson of these second-hand petals were blotched with brown dots, realistically reflecting the blight that is the city. These vendors are hoping to make enough money on this day to pay for rent and groceries until the next holiday. Or maybe they are just looking for bus fare to get out of this city. If that is the case then it is certainly a sort of love-hate relationship between the vendors and the city. If it wasn’t for the fact that everyone here moves about their daily routine faster than one would think possible then these same people probably wouldn’t have forgotten about the holiday until this very last minute. So the city funnels her rushed masses to the vendors who are rushing to leave this dismal place behind. Yes, I believe that captures the spirit of Valentine’s Day quite well.
“As I started out, I had my own bucket in hand, but unlike the vendors who were looking to unload their inventory and line their pockets, my bucket started empty this morning and gradually became full. With each makeshift florist I passed, at each busy street corner, I would buy another rose or two. You might be thinking that this is the start to some tale of hopeless romanticism. I assure you that is not the case. In fact, I am unmarried and unattached, and uninterested in being otherwise. So why the bucket full of roses? To put it simply, I was simply curious. To put it truthfully, I was on a mission of sorts. After filling my plastic five-gallon bucket to the brim with the most vibrant roses this city’s street’s had to offer (and let me assure you, that does not mean much) I set off to probe the minds of random citizens. Such a curiosity could find a man dead in the gutter before the day’s end.
“So what? You think a man must be more than curious to do such a silly thing? Ok, forget any mention of curiosity. Replace the word ‘curious’ with ‘stupid’ then. I was feeling quite stupid, out of boredom. So I took aim at the people of the streets. My first participant in this stupid stunt was a young brunette, on her way to an important job, or at least what she perceived as being so, by the looks of her dress. I first asked for a moment of her time, and once she agreed I handed her a rose. You must imagine there was an initial moment of shock. No, not shock, but confusion, and then I saw a spark of curiosity. Yes, there you go, I was being stupid so as to spark curiosity. That must be what I was getting at. But anyways, I introduced my self. “I’m a reporter for the Star-Dispatch,” I explained, at which time I pulled my recorder from my pocket, clicked the red ‘record’ button and continued by asking the young woman, ‘I would like to know what, if this rose could be anything other than a rose, what would you rather have it be?’
“She responded with what I’m sure she must have thought to be a very witty and clever answer. ‘I wish it would be eleven more roses to make an even dozen,’ was what she replied. I chose not to point out that such a desire, coupled with the way she phrased it, would simply result in her having eleven roses out of the one, and not eleven roses plus the one. I believe being one rose short of a dozen is a much more depressing prospect than then having one rose, and I wasn’t out to sour anyone’s day. But after this initial encounter that seemed like maybe an irrational expectation. Not that my mission objective had turned to trying to ruin the good spirits of others, no, it just seemed like my own soul might not survive.
“Back on point though. Besides today just being February the fourteenth, it also happened to be the first beautiful day of the year since the chill of winter passed. It’s come a bit early actually. I think it was mainly this cooperative weather that motivated me for my excursion. The winter season is such a dull time for reporters, you know. One man can take only so many Christmas parade stories. Even the crime beat is slow during the cold months, for obvious reasons. But this city more than makes up for that once the heat sets in. The point is the good weather puts me in good spirits, but that can be said for most anybody.
“I had let go of my first rose and still had a bucket full to go. You see, while only five or six of these strangers’ responses will be published tomorrow morning, it is important to have plenty of responses. If I were to only ask the necessary five or six people, odds are they would all come up with something cheesy, or what they feel obliged to answer. You know what genre I mean—the obligatory ‘I wish this rose was a cure for cancer!’ or worse even, ‘I wish it were true love for everyone on Valentine’s Day!’ Do you think those people even realize they’re asking for intangible ideals? And on all days, they’ve chosen to shun materialism, on Valentine’s Day! They are simply hoping their response will be published for the whole city to see, in hopes of some karmatic effect, or simply to save face. I certainly got plenty of those today, and I had to uphold my end of the bargain. Such waste, those roses in exchange for that sort of response. In fact, the second rose removed from my bucket yielded just such an answer. It was in fact the first, and certainly not last, enthusiastic wish for ‘world peace.’ I’m sure these will undoubtedly be found on the front page tomorrow. I can envision the headline, ‘City Shows Selfless Side on Valentine’s Day.’ I swear that if the headline is anywhere close to being that revolting I will take to the streets with a marker and personally blackout my byline on each and every paper. I wonder if perhaps it’s not too late to simply have my name pulled from the story altogether?
“Did I receive any worthwhile responses? You mean did any of them warrant my hard work and the beauty of the roses? Of course. But what family publication would publish the thoughts of the bum who wished his rose was forty ounces of cheap liquor? What about the single mother who threw her rose to the ground because she didn’t want anything ‘unless it’s a child support check’? Now those things aren’t in the spirit of pink cutout hearts and greeting cards. No, no, no, they’re just too materialistic, and Valentine’s Day is about nothing of the sort. At this point I entertained the thought of giving up. Dumping the remaining roses in the nearest trashcan—which there are surprisingly few of in this city—and calling it quits. I could always try again at Mother’s Day. All the same vendors (they never do make it out of here) will be on the same street corners. But those bouquets of tulips and carnations just don’t have the same affect on people as the velvet red of a rose. Not to mention Mother’s Day doesn’t hold quite the same symbolism as Valentine’s Day. And personally, tulips and carnations remind me of something one might set solemnly in front of a grave stone of your mother, rather than in her loving arms on a day of celebration for the woman who has cared for you your entire life. But once again, I’ve horribly diverted myself from the subject at hand. It is, after all, still Valentine’s Day for at least another hour, but one would be hard pressed to find a hint of it here in this damned dreary place. No offense to your fine establishment. But I suppose if all of us here had our one true love then this bar would be quite lonely, and that would be a terrible thing on a day like today. I would imagine if I had enough roses left to fill each booth then I would probably be providing my fellows here with a free round of drinks. I don’t believe there’s a soul here who would rather have the redemption of true love, for themselves or any other, than the drinks currently keeping them the best of company.
“That’s not as cynical as it probably comes off as. It’s just that sometimes the truth is mistaken for cynicism. That’s just because humans are inherently stupid. Now that might seem a bit hard to believe, for at first glance you and I might sometimes be mistaken for human, but we both know we’ve transcended beyond that, along with every soul in this place. We may as well be feasting in Valhalla—simply under the guise of a derelict bar. That, my dear, is to fool those mortals.
“Oh, but you bring up the inevitability of death? Well how can you be so sure you will die when the moment has yet to arrive? Well yes, that too is variable; some do die sooner than others. And if that is your worry, to die before you feel your life has been utilized to its utmost potential, then what excuse do you have for standing before me this evening?
“Please don’t take that opening as an opportunity burden me with worries of your suicide. We’ve all been there. While that is your choice, it is these days known as a dishonorable and wasteful way to go. But once more I have deviated quite a bit from our conversation. I can tell our current digression has made you uncomfortable. Maybe you are only mortal. But I will allow you to continue serving us in our godly hall. Pardon me a moment won’t you? while I finish my drink and let me settle my mind.
“Now, I came in here tonight with a purpose. As you have probably noticed I have brought one last rose, this one here next to me, the lone remaining bloom from my day’s adventure. Isn’t it beautiful? No, of course it isn’t. That was a trick question. It was impossible to find any truly beautiful roses in this city. But I saved this one nonetheless, and before its pitiful life is choked out by the putrid air in this place I wish to relinquish it into your care, and with it, comes that same question I spent my day asking. So, my dear Marion, if this rose could be anything other than a rose, what would you rather have it be?”
“Well, I would have to bring our discussion back to where you stopped off, on my behalf, once you noticed my discomfort. I must admit to you, I am going to kill myself; I apologize for the burden that news may put on you, as you mentioned before. However, I won’t be tying a noose, and I’ve never touched a gun, nor do I plan to. It won’t happen tonight. Well, maybe tonight, I really can’t be sure when. I can only go on what I’ve been told, and that is that will be within six months. I’ve come to terms with the fact, and there’s nothing I or anyone else can do about it. I hope you don’t think any less of me, that is, now that you know I am for sure nothing more than mortal. I wish I was in control of this, but if I were to end my life on my own accord at this point it would really be a waste, if only a waste of my effort if I am already set to die tomorrow. It is that uncertainty that is driving me crazy. I hope that when that time comes no one will talk of how courageous I was. This cancer wasn’t my choice. I have no choice but to bear on. I wish I had a choice. And that is why I wish that this rose, were it anything more than a rose, I would like for it to be a natural death. I can think of nothing more conflicting with God’s designs than this unnatural end I am heading towards. I have prayed each night since I was given the news. Is the Mother of God listening now? I never believed so before, but it’s all I have to believe in these days. Now and at the hour of my death…whenever that time is to be, I expect She knows.
So to answer your earlier concerns, I am killing myself, but you shouldn’t worry about suicide.”
“Oh Marion, not to sound insensitive, but do you have to lust after that which can’t be grasped? You’re only torturing your soul. You can’t stop the deterioration of your body, but dear, leave your soul to rest in peace. God has given up on us all. Don’t go giving yourself to Him now. By doing so you’re only admitting that obviously He is the reason you are in this tight spot. But if that is to be the case then you must have done something to make the man angry. As for your courage, I can assure you I will do my best to quell any stories of your “heroic” struggles. And it is good of you to stray from suicide. There is nothing but depression and shame down that road. Yes, that is what they would say of you. But I would have none of it. In fact, I would personally write your obituary and see to it that no such negative connotations were placed beneath your name. This is all truly terrible. In no way is this uncertainty a fitting end for you, my dear. It is certainly worse than being given an exact time and date. In fact, his is truly the way criminals should be put to death. Knowing that the punishment looms over them, but with no way to tell when it shall strike. That, I have always thought, would be due torture when it came to capital crimes. But for one such as you…ah.
“I’m sorry, I can see you’re a bit taken aback once more. I really must apologize for whatever I might have said to maim your spirit as I see that I clearly have. I certainly can ramble and you know it is a fact, as a writer, I am at a natural disadvantage for speaking freely. Had I written this all down I swear it would have been much more eloquent, beautiful in a way much more befitting one such as you. Oh, but here I go one more time, I really ought to be going I suppose. I’ve already made such a fool of myself. And how perfect, it had begun to rain. I will hold my head down as the rain soaks me through. Perhaps it will help wash my damned soul clean. Some spectacular happens in the city when it rains. The storm, in all of its beauty and glory, especially one such as this! It’s not all lightning and thunder. And the rain, it’s not too heavy. It’s a perfect mix of the elements. But the amazing part, as I mentioned, is that it actually manages to make the city more hideous than it would be on a normal night. The murky orange of the streetlights is captured in the rain clouds. This casts the whole city in an awkward off red. I do at least hope this rain will follow me home and off to bed. It really is the best sleeping weather. The rain beating on the windows near my bed creates the perfect level of white noise needed to lull me right into a dream state. If it weren’t for the rain however, the thunder and lightning would keep me awake all night, with nothing to drown it out. But that wouldn’t make for such a poor evening; I do like to watch Mother Nature perform every now and again. Ah, but here I am rambling again. So with my last rose gone, I will leave empty handed, ready for whatever might fill them tomorrow. All I have to my person is a depressing glimpse of our city, with my name attached. That is to say, all I have left is my name. A few good deeds to it, but most of all, my shame.”
