Inearthia

After a few more steps I make it. Vines of green and yellow leaves hang overhead like an arch. Through the vines, I see glimpses of light and not much more. It’s almost hopeful. I should be hopeful. I am. 

I finally cut my way in, the light hitting me first. It peaks out from a small hole curated by space between the trees. It shines directly on her. The light causes specks to fall and swirl around her angelically. It would have been more enchanting if she hadn’t informed me before that they were only dust particles. It’s hard to revel in beauty when I’m too concerned about my allergies. 

She doesn’t appear aware of my presence. Her eyelids are made up of tulip petals, bringing a pop of color to the various shades of green and brown. She breathes in and out. Her breathing is inhuman. It hums and repeats softly and gently in a way too still for a person. As if the world is on her shoulders and it’s a job in itself to breathe. Part of me wonders if she’s asleep. Can she sleep now? Do plants sleep?

I look to the side. Next to my entrance sits two stones, untouched by the light. I inch closer to them and hold my foot to its side, dragging it across. 

“Excuse me,” a voice interrupts. 

I shoot a look back at her. “What?”

Her face contorts ever so slowly. She stares me down. Her eyes remind me of a monarch butterfly, ever so gorgeous and ever so terrifying to the unsuspecting. “What do you mean ‘what?” Her voice drops mockingly low at the ‘what.’ A laughable interpretation of daft masculinity. “Are you seriously wiping your shoe on that beautiful rock?” She takes a deep breath and frowns in disgust. “And it’s covered in poop!” 

I roll my eyes. “I’m just returning it to the earth. It was on the ground when I stepped on it anyway.” 

“It wasn’t near me.” She crosses her arms. It’s weird seeing her move. Although her motion has found its rhythm, it seems tired. They’re robotic and hesitant at the same time. 

I shrug at her. “Consider it a gift.” 

“A gift,” her voice drags in revolt. Her quick and ferrous disgust makes me grin. 

“I’m joking,” I say as I set my satchel down on the ground.  

Her dimples of baby’s breath humor me, even if the rest of her expression remains stagnant. She places an arm of ivy and other such likes against her right hip. “You know last time I checked jokes were supposed to be funny. 

My head nods and I hold up the satchel. “I have your real gift.” I swing the satchel side to side, cocking my head in rhythm with it.  

Her shoulders shift up, the daises on the tops of her shoulders rising elegantly. The light seems brighter now as if the hole opened and allowed for her hope to seep in. Her arms reach out, the vines from such crawling and falling to the ground only to never land, rather linger in the air. She moves towards me, she’s floating, she’s moving. 

Her hand pets my cheek, a hand of aloe and duds of mushroom tops. It brushes against me smoothly, leaving a cool and muddy remain on the side of my face. She kisses me quick. Her lips brush against mine. I taste nectar and smell grass. Her lips pop off of mine as she retreats, her mossy mouth unknowingly clinging on for more. 

As my eyes open, I spot a new flower. A small bright baby pink anthurium blooming through her hair of creeping fig. It’s one of many flowers on her head but special. I know why it bloomed. 

I pull her in closer and she follows my pursuit. The sensation from before continues now more nimble and desperate. I feel her tongue, a thin leavy thing reminiscent of a snake’s tongue. I feel as it travels down and down into my throat. My throat begins to swell burn and tickle. The pollen fills all my senses and I attempt to open my eyes to clear the unrelenting tears building up. 

I fall back; my only defense. Despite the grass below me, my fall is hard. It takes a moment to recover from the clump of pollen still bouncing off the walls of my esophagus. 

I look up at her, but her eyes avoid my gaze. She leans to her side, playing with the however many years-old bracelet I got her as a gift. I’m certain it’s mossy by now, or perhaps it’s sunken into her field of lower earth skin. 

“I want to see the gift.” She said blankly. 

“Right,” I manage to choke out. I bring the satchel back to my side. 

A glimmer of silver slips through my hands as I search the bag. “Shears?” Her voice so demanding it makes the ground rumble with her. “How many times do I have to tell you shears won’t work? I could-”

I cut her off. “That’s not the gift.” I continue looking through the bag. “Not all of it anyway.” 

“If you put those shears anywhere near me I swear to-” 

My eyes brighten. I slowly pull out a small syringe. She leans in closer. The side of her mouth twinges. She grants me pause. I take it. “It’s a tranquilizer.” I examine the syringe, moving it around in my hand. “Kind of.” 

She scoffs. “Why not just kill me quietly?” 

“That’s not the point,” I say. “If I can get you numb, then make I can take the shears and-” 

“Cut me loose right? Except what you’d actually be doing is cutting off my lifeline.” 

I throw my arms down. “We don’t know that.” I rise to my feet. 

She gets closer. “Well, the only way to find out is through life or death.” She drops down, cradling herself. She takes a deep breath. “I have to choose every day between this or death.” 

“I am trying to help. Why can’t you understand that?” 

“Oh because it’s so hard for you. I didn’t realize my situation was such an inconvenience.” 

My head leans down over her. “Well, you’re as much of an inconvenience to me now as you were before.”

We both stand still. A mention of the unspoken. The before. The true before. The before that got her that bracelet. The before that brought me that intoxicating kiss. 

Maybe the before that brought us here. 

Her body dampens in front of me. Her cheeks puff as they’re watered by her tears. Every flower in her hair wilts and whimpers. “You have more of a choice than I ever did.” Her voice is cold, strict, and honest. It’s how she’s still human. Her voice can harden as her body sinks. “You can leave.”

She’s right. My body remains numb for a moment. Hesitation out of respect for the years between us. 

My steps follow her command, as always. 

Author

Lauren Mawson

Artist: Ruhshona Rahmatova – “Flowers”