Witness

You were bringing her a rose, you think, as the voices murmur around you.  Not a red rose - red was an ordinary color for roses, and she was anything but ordinary.  It was yellow, just like the yellow sweater she had worn on your first date.  And the yellow rose was commemorating that date, one year ago that night.  You were bringing her a rose to celebrate one year together as friends, as lovers, as sweethearts.

You were bringing her a rose.

The voices continue to gently wrap you in their sounds.  "The cops have a tape.  And there was a witness."

"Who was the witness?" another voice asks.

"Her boyfriend.  He saw the whole thing."

Yes, he did, you think.  He saw everything.  You move away from those painful voices, just as another voice ushers the mourners to their seats.  The yellow rose now in your hand travels with you to the front of the rows that have been set up, the plain metal chairs decorated with furry blue covers.  As if it could make you comfortable.  You still know that you're sitting in a metal chair, and you know exactly where you are.  All the blue plush covers in the world can't make you forget.

Her mother sits on your left.  You look at your shoes.  You shined them for the occasion.  And you focus on your shoes, because you can't bear to look into her mother's eyes.  They are full of grief and bewilderment.

You were bringing her a rose.

The pastor's words bring no comfort, no sense of consolation.  They are meaningless to you.  A small breeze travels through the canvas, taking the pastor's words away from your ears, and your mind revisits that night again, the night when you were bringing her a rose.

You had planned on a dinner.  Candles, cooking, kisses over a glass of wine.  But there was a glitch, a fluke in the schedule at the corner grocery store where she worked.  The dinner must be postponed, but it didn't really matter, did it?  Besides, are we counting from our first date, or from the moment that we realized that we were going to spend our lives together?  True, the events were only a day apart, but then that would mean our anniversary was tomorrow anyway!  You can hear her laughing about it, trying so hard not to disappoint, not to be disappointed.

From that first date, you knew it would be her.  No one held a candle to her.  Her great light swallowed everything else.  Her eyes, her hair, her skin were poetry to you.  Nature itself seemed to be jealous of her - the sun shone so brightly on her, the wind was so fierce, as if to say, Not fair, Not fair!  Not fair that such beauty should go to a mere human!

So you were bringing her a rose. 

The petals fall at your feet.  You are grasping your rose too tightly.  Her mother is sobbing.  Her father sits rigidly beside the broken woman, his eyes dry but red.  The pastor's voice rises and falls, speaking of God and His will.  You nearly laugh.  God's will?  Really!  Was it God's will that her life should leak through your hands?  Was it God's will that so many worthless beings should live and she should die?  Was it God’s will that your feet should remain frozen to the ground during those crucial moments?  God's will is a joke!  Nothing but a big cosmic blunder!

You were bringing her a rose, and you stopped, looking at her through the window.  She was alone except for a single customer.  She seemed to be trying to explain something to him.  You simply watched her, each moment making her lovelier than before, until you realize that her smile is too bright, in fact, it seems contrived.

The customer seems angry.  He starts to flap his arms, and she steps back, a look of fear flashing across her ivory skin.  He seems to want something that she cannot give.  His face, pale and drawn, contorts in pure fury.  He shouts.  She jumps.  She turns her back on him, and reaches for something under the counter.  You can see the first tears starting to roll down her cheeks.

Move! you tell yourself, but your feet are frozen to the ground.  You seem doomed to watch this little drama play itself out, just as you are doomed to watch it repeat itself in your dreams.  You cannot move.  You cannot budge.  And you cannot take your eyes from the window, where the man does not see you in his hurry.

She brings a black box up from under the counter, and he gestures at her.  She is sobbing now.  She tries the combination to the lock, and you see the man's hand reach into his pocket.  He pulls out a gun, and points it at her, level with her chest.  She begins to cry harder, her hands failing at the lock.  And still you cannot move, cannot lift a finger to stop this!

You can see the man better now, see that his eyes are swollen, his pupils large.  Under the sleeve of his filthy t-shirt, you see the red marks marching up and down his arm.  You can see that he looks like a caged animal, pacing back and forth in front of her, waving his gun, screaming loudly for her to hurry up. 

Her hands are shaking so badly that you can see the entire safe jumping.  She twists and turns the combination, and the lock stubbornly refuses to budge.  She looks at him, pleading.  He shouts, and she screams in terror and shock.

Was it her scream?  Did it scare him?  Did it surprise him?  Or was he just tired of the game, and desperate to get to his next fix?  The gun went off with a bang much too loud to be real.  A large red blossom, like an ordinary red rose, was forming on the yellow sweater that she had worn to work, the same sweater that she had been wearing on the night that you fell in love with her.  They both looked at the blossom grow.  Then he screamed in frustration, grabbed the entire safe, and ran from the market, right at you.

You watched him, but you didn't really see him; no more than he saw you.  You didn't even see the yellow rose tumble to the ground, the ribbon you had tied around it sinking gently into the puddle it had fallen in to.  All you saw was her.  And all of a sudden, you were finally able to move.

Extraordinary in life, extraordinary in death.  She seemed to wilt like a plucked flower, and by the time you reached her, she had sunk to the floor.

Dark circles were already forming under her eyes.  The blood flowed from the yellow sweater through your hands and to the floor.  You gathered her into your arms, but you had no time.  Your eyes found hers, those lovely, lovely eyes that were fading.  Somehow, she managed to bring her hand up to your face.  "Love . . . you . . ." she whispered.

And then she was gone, leaving you alone.  "Help me," you whispered.  There was a scream building in your throat, but it couldn't escape.  And then you thought of him, running past you.  He had taken your life from you as surely as if he had put the bullet into your own chest.  And he didn't even notice you!  As though he hadn't changed your life in a single moment!  As if you didn't matter!  And the scream escaped, tearing your throat as it came, tearing your very soul in two.  "Help me!  Help her! She's been hurt!"

A single tear falls from your eye to your shiny shoes.  Her mother hands you her tissue, blackened already with her mascara.  You accept it, but don't use it.  There have been so many tears, so many nights already where you woke up in a lake of your own sweat, running to catch her, running to keep her from falling, never making it on time.  The impotence and guilt you feel in life follows you into the dream world.

Someone had picked up the rose from its puddle.  Emergency workers and investigators had been stepping over it all evening, never realizing its significance.  It wasn't until an EMT noticed the shiny band of gold tied to it that they realized that it must not be there by accident.  It wasn't fancy, but it was what you could afford.  And you hadn't been willing to wait another night without seeing it on her hand.

The police had a tape of the shooting, and a witness.  The man was in jail, drying out and awaiting his trial.  Lawyers had already assured you that he would spend the rest of his life locked up like the animal he was.  Community leaders had clamored for the death penalty, and had even looked to you to support them.  You gave no comment.

She was gone, and she wouldn't come back.  Let him rot in jail.  Let him die soon.  It really didn't matter.  She was gone.

You couldn’t have done anything, they tell you.  There was nothing you could have done, except perhaps die beside her.  How those meaningless voices cut you with their attempted sympathy – you did nothing, you just watched, and now she was gone and you were left alone to walk through your life without her.

The service was over.  Clutching the remains of your rose, you walk to the coffin that will lock away her loveliness forever.  The yellow rose goes on top, and the coffin is lowered into the ground.  The mourners disperse, but you stay there, knowing that you have just buried your future, along with the ring that you had tied to the yellow rose that you were bringing her.