Tonight, I lay her down on a bed of black orchids.
To me, she is the most dazzling flower of all, despite the solemn black garb she favors so much. She has always been at home in the limelight and on the red carpets winding through thick crowds and leading up to grandiose palazzos. Drawing all the gazes, of both men and women. She is nameless – she could become anyone she wanted at a moment’s notice. All she ever needed was a camera pointing at her and a few deft touches of kohl.
To me, she is the black orchid. The jewel in the crown of any gathering. The one flower you must incline your head to in wordless admiration, because whatever you might say could deturn her smile, while everyone longed for it to linger. I’ve put her on a pedestal, like so many other teen-year-olds have. Revered her beauty. Basked in her aura. Idolized any word that escaped her immaculate mouth. Imitated her class, albeit with considerably less success. Envied her grace. Longed to possess an ounce of her spirit. When I realized I could not, I resorted to a more terminal solution.
Red suits her fine too, I resolve, while I observe the glistening rivulet snaking its way down her porcelain neckline. Surprised it did not take much to crush it. The contrasting colors, the redness against the white skin, add up to a breathtaking tableau. No filters needed. It makes me happy I could contribute a stroke of my own to it, further adding to her mystique. I am enamored with my black orchid, prostrated as she is on the bier in front of me.
She is a flower, delicate. Fragile. The poster collection covering the walls of my room, amassed over so many years, did not lie. She is every inch what I imagined, and more. Still, she is made of very much the same substance than any of us. I am disappointed, almost. The blood on my hands, her blood, is wet and red and tangy. I do not know why I expected any different. Even flowers shed blood like the rest of us, it turns out.
Tonight, I lay her down on a bed of black orchids. Deserving of a resting place like no other, she is. Her catafalque is beset by a small army of flowers. She, the brightest of them all. Though she may have expired, her beauty will be remembered. For the next 24 hours, at least.
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