Rose and Nightshade

This is a short story I wrote in my sophomore year fiction 1 class.

Rose petal perfume floats about the one-bedroom apartment like a forgotten love letter. It twirls to and fro, drawing memories from the still air. Laughter and dialogue from a favorite movie follows closely behind.

“I love you, I love you, I love…”

A groan moves the sudden silence to the corners of the room as hands stretch above the couch, casting a grotesque shadow on the wall. “I know you hate when I have to stop the movie, but it’s coming up on my favorite part and I’m getting hungry.”

The shadow becomes a hunched shaped as the man rises. Erect, he walks towards the kitchen. “Since you decided not to come to the store with me. It’s chicken with cheese topping again!” The shape turns at the entrance to the kitchen before chuckling, “Sorry about your stomach in advance.”

A stark florescent light gets thrown from the kitchen. The clanging of cookware pursues the light, accompanied by an idle monologue.

“I really like Singing in the Rain, I think it’s my favorite movie. I especially like the scene where…”

The man rambles on, bumbling around the kitchen as the television sits, frozen on a couple dressed in aristocratic garb. The man sits on one knee, with the head of the woman clasped lovingly within his hands.

The clanging changes to a sizzling as the smell of cooking chicken runs the perfume to the ceiling.

“… and then the scene in the studio, where Gene has to set the stage to get the mood right. Speaking of, do you like what I’ve done with the dining table? I think a flower just brightens it up and makes a more enjoyable meal, don’t you?”

Sizzling is the only response. The characters on the television remain locked within their embrace, but the silence does not get a chance to take hold as the man continues, “I know roses are your favorite, even though you insist you hate the look of them. I mean your perfume reeks of them. See, I prefer a nice nightshade, dangerous but beautiful. Just like you dear.”

The man pauses for a second, the sizzling slowly dies away. There’s the click of metal on metal. The sink turns on, then off again. Then nothing. Silence creeps closer to the kitchen, but before it can cross the threshold a drawer opens, and the sharp sound of silverware being picked through bares the way.

“Alright, dinner’s ready!” The light goes off. The television returns the shadows to their original position. “I hope you will join me for dinner at the table tonight, instead of staying on the couch. I’m tired of cleaning crumbs from in between the cushions.” One plate thuds down. A single chicken breast gracing it.

“Did you know they call nightshade berries the Devil’s fruit?” he places the other plate down, which clangs against a bowl filled with milk and cereal, spilling it all over the chair. “The name was used to discourage children from eating them.” The man continues on, oblivious to the milk dripping to the floor. “Mostly because the berries are sweet.”

He walks back to the kitchen, leaving behind two chairs, one drenched in milk and cereal, two sets of silverware, two unlit candles, a small bowl of smooth, black fruit, and a single, long dead rose.

“I’ll turn the movie back on if you come sit with me. I want to be able to smell you.” The man lights a candle; shadows jump across his face. He grabs a couple berries and pops them, one by one, into his mouth. “They’re sweet.” The ensuing silence while he chews lasts for some moments. The shadows from the candle play on the ceiling in a frenzied dance, the smell of the candle keeping the rose petal perfume away from the man. The man stands, oblivious to the invisible world. His figure is illuminated by the couple upon the television screen

He swallows, then breaks the silence, “These berries are delicious, I know you haven’t eaten any, considering the bowl’s still mostly full.” He picks a couple berries up and walks to the couch. “Oh, yeah, I guess I can let the movie keep going.” He tips his hand, letting the berries fall onto the couch, they roll around, some finding their way into the cushions. He then grabs the remote.

“…you.” The eternal embrace ends with a passionate kiss. “Did somebody get paid for writing that dialogue?” laughter follows the man back to the table.

"It sounds like a comedy inside…”

The man pops a couple of berries in his mouth, “See? I told you they were good,” The man says. The man smacks his lips and sits in the chair across from the spilt milk.

“This is terrible.”

A distorted sound plays from the movie. “Yes dear, I do love you. You know that. You don’t have to ask me a hundred times.” The man says to the milk-soaked chair.

“The sound! It’s out of synchronization!” the television exclaims.

“Isn’t the chicken delicious?” The man asks, staring across the table.

“What’s this?! Yvonne captured by Rouge Noir of the Purple Terror?”

“Oh, come now, you don’t have to call it a terror.” The man at the table says, pointing with his fork.

“…My sword!”

“You have a knife in front of you! It’s really easy to cut! See?” The man reaches for his own knife, instead grabbing nothing but air. The man stabs the chicken with his fork and attempts to cut it, unaware he has nothing in his hand.

“Pierre will save me! Pierre!” The woman on the televisions shrill voice calls. The man at the table starts to chuckle. It grows, slowly, until he is laughing hysterically along with the audience in the film.

“No, No, No.”

“Yes, Yes, Yes.”

“No, No, No.”

“Yes… Yes… Yes…” The dialogue slows as does the man’s laughter until his face becomes slack. His hand falls from the fork, his shoulders slump, and his face lands on top of the chicken.

“I love you! I love you! I love you! I love you!” A character on the television says in mock adoration.

The movie and candle dance, one sending the scent of roses, the other sounds of love, into the air. The man’s eyes reflect the movie, as he sits motionless with a dead rose, the slow drip, drip of spilled milk, a candle burning away the memory of a favorite perfume, a small bowl of black fruit, and a table set for two.