What have you done, flowers?
She lives inside a translucent box. She can see the whole world from here. From the buzzing bee on a crisp spring morning in the vast valley of Pelagonia, to the indigo tears dropped on the scrapbook from a writer’s eyes. She can see the birth of a new calf into this world, she can see the blood coursing through its weak legs. She can see the air people breathe and wonders how it tastes.
She sits and wonders, and that’s her life. Looks and analyzes and that’s alright. She would sometimes lean closer to the glass when she sees a couple’s first kiss and wonders what it’s like to only feel this. Her eyes gaze outwards and rarely look inside, for outside is so beautiful, but what’s at her feet is not. She feels the screech sometimes, or a splash, or a stab. But she refuses to look down, only up and out about.
Outside is what matters, outside is the world. In here there is nothing but her and everything hers. The beauty of the simplicity of life fascinates her, the one out there. She doesn’t consider what's behind her in here. The gaze only focuses in the distance, and the hands only stay folded in the lap.
Never look down. Never touch things. Never blink. Only watch, listen, and learn.
Scents elude her, so does warmth or cold. Light or dark are only registered from beyond. How long has this been going on? Maybe hours, maybe weeks, maybe eons, who knows…
Eyes meet hers and she doesn’t even flinch. She feels bubbling at her feet. Rarely do others see the box or her. Rarely do they bother to pay attention to hurt. But these eyes, they focus, they look where she dares not. They look down at her feet, at her sides, at her back. Discomfort is not something she has felt before. Discomfort was a thing she’d only seen and naught more.
“Are you okay in there?” the eyes echo. Silence is their answer, for she had never spoken. “It’s filling up fast, you’re going to drown!” What do they mean, there's nothing there but their sound. “Look down!” No, that’s one of the rules. She doesn’t look inside the box, only out through.
Outside eyes become impatient, frustrated, rushing, blooming carnations. They are the whole world now, they are all she can see. How fascinating she finds this to be. White, pink, red, and now they’re brimmed with a blue. They shine and they shiver as they look on into you.
“Say something!” No, she cannot speak. That’s another of the rules, she only sees. “Then look down!” Not inside. Only up and out, never the downside. The blue drips from the flowers as they gaze into her. She wonders at its consistency, is it thick as glue?
The blue turns lighter and lighter and white. Everything’s gone. The outside is a bright night?
“Please, move...” No, her hands always stay folded. Alas… this time… they feel somewhat scalded…? No, she can’t look down. But she can see the eyes no more, yet hears the whispers true. She wonders, as she does, what could take away the blue? Maybe it’s time to break a rule…
Her hand lifts up too close to her eyes and wipes away the condensation off the glass from inside. Carnations in colors; chocolate, white, red, and blue. How beautiful, she thinks, if only they were true. “Look at it!” they scream, and she jolts from the feel. It’s real.
Her eyes focus closer and see the hand on the glass. Red, so very red, redder than wine. What have you done, flowers, she muses, don’t you see? Her hands are stained with blood and so is the bottom at her feet.