Lost in the Garden of Indigo
(story was revised from one of my older stories/piece)
Once upon a time, upon a green hilltop, there lived a pale, sickly child, who spent his days alone in a little house that he and his mother shared. The child was as fragile as if he were made out of glass; he would bleed and bruise from the slightest fall, and his paper white skin would blister from direct sunlight. In concern for her child’s poor condition, the child was kept indoors, never to venture outside to play in the sun or to feel the fresh air.
"Sebastian, mind your health," his mother liked to remind him, whenever she thought he was exerting himself too much, even though he never did much of anything.
Without a sibling to keep him company, the child would sit by window sill by the dining room table and stare out upon the happy, healthy little girls and boys of the neighborhood, who tussled and roamed about carelessly in the fields outside.
Well hidden away behind the shadow of a curtain from his window, he watched the other children and partook in their activities as a silent observer. He heard their laughter, heard their cries, and watched with curiosity as they weaved daisy chains, and chased each other about. He was charmed by the way the sun caught in the girls’ long wavy hairs, which were occasionally decorated with yellow and white daisies. He would catch he flashing brilliance of a passing butterfly, and the sky changing color as the moon approached with the setting of the sun. Life seemed to be dancing and sliding past by him as if he was non-existent. He was a spectator watching the play of Life behind the red velvet curtain of his windowsill.
As a bystander and a keen listener, Sebastian knew everything and everyone within the vicinity. He even prided himself in knowing exactly how many daisies grew upon the hilltop where his house stood, and he held account for every daisy that was plucked each day, and noticed the new ones that were growing. Outside the realm of own home, and the view from his windowsill, Sebastian knew nothing. He was pure, and untainted from the influence of anyone apart from his own mother who only taught him good morals.
One day, something peculiar had caught Sebastian’s eye: at the bottom of the hill, he made out a dark, dense area of wilderness. The area lay washed out under the hot sun, and forgotten. It was nothing more than a dried up tangled web of roots and branches, but its mysterious presence seemed to put him under a spell. How come he has never noticed it before? He began to wonder what might lie inside the strange, dark wilderness. This thought served to him as mere curiosity in the beginning, conjuring up fanciful imagination that preoccupied the following days. However, one night, his infatuation with the garden became an obsession.
One night, as he lay tossing and turning in bed, abandoned by Sleep and haunted by visions of the Garden, he turned to the window above his bed. He opened the glass in hopes that some fresh air might do him some good when he became overwhelmed by a heavy, and dark hypnotic perfume, which rose from the bottom of the hill. It came from the Garden, which by the light of the moonlight Sebastian saw that it was in full bloom, so alive and rich with dark foliage and velvet petals that it almost seemed to be pulsating. Entranced and suddenly overcome by curiosity and desire, Sebastian did something that was quite out of his character; careful not to wake his mother, he snuck out of his window and headed for the depths of the garden. Something was stirring inside him, unfamiliar emotions that possessed him with venomous claws.
He entered the strange garden where giant stocks of white roses surrounded him; the buds swaying eerily above his head. They gave off a strange perfume, that smelled almost of raw meat. Sebastian was entranced and felt as if he was walking inside a dream; none of it seemed real. The cold, phosphorous glow from the white flowers looked like many moons; soft, velvety moons which he could reach out and cup inside of his little hands. Alas, as he reached up to touch the velvet petals, blood blossomed from a pinprick wound bestowed onto his finger by the thorn of a single rose. He continued to bleed until the roses around him became covered in his blood. Their monstrous faces seemed to move and gather around the poor boy. As he lay quietly amongst the tangled teethy thorns and brambles, he thought he heard a breathing sound coming from the warm soil underneath him; the garden was alive. It was a mistake to come here. Sebastian looked up at the indigo sky, and was able to make out spots of glittering stars in the distance, cold and indifferent to his pain.