Absolution

I had this dream; it was extremely vivid and bright — the clearest, bluest sky you’d ever have seen, with birds of all types just flying by, over the white tracks aeroplanes had left. It was in a perfect garden - one that you’d find in a painting, one that I’d seen before, briefly, a long time ago, maybe it was the garden we used to have, before mom died; and my brother was there, dressed in this crisp white suit, head to toe in white, with a grin on his face – one that I hadn’t seen since the last three weeks before he left. He looked healthy and he looked happy. He called me over and crouched down on the immaculately cut grass, left hand reaching out to me, white suit standing out clearly against the red azaleas.

I joined him on the grass, letting his hand smoothly drop from mine and he told me to look at what he’d grown – a bush of perfect, delicate and fragile white roses, with petals that resembled porcelain. He smiled widely and picked one from the centre of the bush, inhaling the sickly sweet aroma and handing it to me in a fluid motion, one that I wasn’t sure my real brother was capable of; dream brother was a graceful, elegant creature that made me want to better myself.

I lifted the rose, took in the fresh scent, only, it smelt horrible, like rotting, like death. I looked down at the flower, the faultless rose, and felt a pang of sadness and guilt as my eyes witnessed it wither and die. The previously silky, soft petals turned a grey colour and the texture gave off the feel of a wrinkled and aged corpse.

I looked to my brother and I asked him how we could save it, feeling my eyes begin to well with thick, heavy tears; he’d seemed to have aged since I first entered the dream. My brother just shook his head mournfully and wiped away the tears rolling down his face, telling me we couldn’t save it, with the added, “You ruined it, Dean – you ruin everything.” He pointed an accusative finger at me and snatched away the rose from my hands; I peered down at them, noticing the tiny pricks from the thorns growing wider and gushing deep red blood. I reached out and grabbed onto the white lapels of my brother’s jacket, staining the cold, hard, once soft and warm looking material with a vibrant crimson. He touched the backs of my knuckles and then coaxed them up, lifting them to his mouth and running my fingertips over his dry lips, smearing his mouth with my blood. He held onto them for a moment, looking deep into my eyes with a concerned face, and then gently let my bloody hands drop to my sides loosely.

My voice croaked out a question, or perhaps it was an apology, but by the time it was audible, my brother had turned his back and had walked away.