Madness At Noon {COMPLETED}

Epilogue: The Rose

In the breeze, petals unfurled towards the light of the spring sun. The Woman had left the flower in a dirty crystal vase beside the maple sapling last week. The water had dried out days ago and the once vibrant red petals wilted brown around the edges.

Although the rose had lost its fragrance, there was still a hint of beauty tucked safely within its core. Slowly it swayed atop the grassy knoll, surrounded by carpets of green and oceans of cloudless blue sky. Alone it was red, and alone it watched them come.

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The Woman came first, returning at the break of dawn. As light entered the world, so did a city woman in fine clothes and uncomfortably long heels trudge the long distance to this place far from humanity's mar. Halfway up the hill, she abandoned her shoes, soaking the black tights she wore. When she reached the rose and the grave, the Woman spat on the ground. This visit was, the rose knew, after the Woman swore never to return after the last time. And the time before that. And the time before that. The Woman spat again. Then she wept. Then she cursed the sky, a few separate gods from separate religions, the grave, death, and the dead. After only two minutes, the Woman had said her piece and snatched up her expensive heels, vowing to never return, and stormed off, effectively ruining a perfectly good pair of silk stockings.

The rose bobbed up and down in the playful wind's current and watched.

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The man came next, just as he did every week. He brought with him a very large and heavy-looking wicker basket and a wooden baseball bat stuck with an assortment of metallic objects such as nails and bits of wire, which he used as a walking stick. Though he was dressed finely, this man did not have the natural presence of a well-off, modern citizen, as the Woman had. Rather, he was more like an unexpected heir to an unknown fortune and suddenly found himself in need of fine clothing yet had not a clue how to wear them or how to carry himself properly. Even his tie was messy and the knot around his neck loose.

Reaching the top of the hill, the man set down his goods and plopped down on the dew-covered grass. He stuck a tiny figurine of an orange tabby cat into the soft dirt next to the crystal vase and then began setting up his picnic.

"Would'ya believe those bastards up at Gangle's didn't have a decent bunch of roses? I mean, what kinda flower shop ain't got no roses? But don't ya worry, I bought ya some of that nice stuff ya like to drink to make up for it. It ain't wine, though, I hope ya don't mind. Old Man Letterson says this is the best bottle in the Back Ends, so it's gotta be worth somethin'. Pity you gave all yer good drinks to that dame who took yer cats. Cats ain't gotta drink; men do. Should've given it to me and the crew, ya know. We'd've put 'em to good use.

"Worked out the Docks deal Saturday just like I promised. Ya should've seen those Dragon-Tiger-Claw-or whatever the hell ya call 'em's faces when I showed up on my own. They thought it was a crew fight, but I thought to myself, 'What would she do?' and I knew I didn't need no crew. Just had to be smart, like ya taught me. So, I used my head. And that little black book ya gave me didn't hurt either. Lots of nice numbers in there. Thanks. I called up this weird Mexican guy and he gave me these really nice powders and nitro...somethin' somethin' science-y.

"'Cause I knew. They knew who I was, so they brought that crazy mofo pyro thinkin' they could burn me and my docks to the ground. Jackasses. Soon as that guy lit up, I lit them up. I thought like you and laced that place good with every little flammable explosive I could get my hands on. That asshat lit his little pinky on fire thinkin' he was some kinda badass and KABOOM!

"It was a good time, M. Really good time. You'd've been proud. Little Miss Dragon Fucks weren't so fireproof after all.

"They'll learn. Ain't nobody heat up the Winter King. They'll learn." A deep, slow breath. "Just like you wanted. Just... Yeah, just like that." A small sniffle. "Just like you, M. I'll make ya proud. Just like... Just like I promised."

The man drank the whole tequila bottle dry and ate enough food for a feast until not a crumb or drop remained in his basket. Cheeks red, he sat back against the tree sapling and stared at the sky for hours, rambling on about this and that and last Tuesday and the victory yesterday and the soon-to-be victories for tomorrow. At some point in time, the cat figurine ended up in his lap and he stroked it as if it were real.

The breeze pressed the bloom of the rose against his shoulder. A single petal fell and landed on the back of his gloved hand. Slowly, very slowly, it began to stiffen, the dark auburn veins turning black and then gray and then white as the petal froze. Rigid yet fragile, the petal tipped from the man's hand and cracked in two as it hit the ground.

The man let out a long sigh and swatted the rose away. He gathered up his things – he left the cat behind – and, leaning heavily on his bat as if it were a crutch, made the long walk across the field to the little dirt road where a car was waiting to take him away.

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Shadows puddled in dips and valleys amongst the grass. The air grew cool and heavy; birds silenced themselves, giving way to the creatures of the night, to the numberless crickets and invisible owls and yipping foxes that watched from the darkness with glowing yellow eyes. The last trickle of light melted away, leaving only stars above and black below.

The Man did not come quickly, as the Woman had. He did not come sadly, as the man had. He came as one who has no purpose, no preset destination, but rather as if he simply happened to be out for a stroll in the night and coincidentally came upon a single red rose that marked the grave he himself had dug seven years ago.

He stood for a long time staring at nothing and everything. He watched the ways the thin flower stem bent and strained against its crystal prison and noticed each dying petal, the rot that crept closer and closer to the rose's heart. He at once marked the holes in the grass behind him in which the Woman's heels had gotten stuck and where she had had to rip them out of the earth step by step until she abandoned her shoes, as well as the hard patch of earth where the grass curled in on itself at the base of the side, browning and dying as if Autumn had come to this singular spot two seasons early, and how the bark of the young tree appeared black and cracked as if it had aged a hundred years but only in the one place in the shape of a young man's shoulders.

The Man offered no curses or stories. He did not pray; he did not cry. But he did bow his head and remain silent. The wind ruffled his over-grown black hair and the edges of his fine suit. A sharp scent of minty aftershave polluted the air.

As the moon began to rise, crooked in its half-crescent form, the Man reached into the side pocket of his suit and pulled out a white slip of paper. He read:

"I am glad you are dead. The world is a better place for it. My city's streets are safe; my people are prospering; we are healing from your reign of terror. Crime has dropped over seventy percent since the day you burned Sceptre Asylum to the ground. You are dead, and I am glad. I do not miss you. That you stay dead is the greatest gift you could give me."

He pulled out a small, silver lighter from another pocket. Holding out the letter, he flicked open the lighter and struck the flint wheel. In this world of darkness, the tiny, wiggling flame burned with defiance. The Man held the corner of the letter over the lighter and watched as the fire greedily licked across the handwritten note.

"Happy Anniversary, Noon."

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The Man left.

It was not silent, nor was it serene. This little meadow, unimportant in a wide, wild world, was as ordinary as before. There were only crickets and stars and single red rose that rested inside a dirty crystal vase and watched.