The Glass Petals

                How do you continue to stand, as the world around you falls?  How do you pick up the pieces of a broken life and turn them into something worthwhile?  And just how does the human mind find the strength to cope with extreme trauma like that?  As a wartime journalist, it was once my job and my life to investigate questions like these.  My passion was finding out what made people tick, and it was a passion I carried with me even after the War.  This is my story.  This is an account of humanity at its core.
 
                It was a wet day in February, as I recall, when I found myself sloshing through the winter rain that drained the street of colour and left it gray – unsure of why I was there, I paused in the meager shelter of a shop awning to empty my mind of the needless worries that seemed determined to keep me constantly preoccupied.
                And quickly I remembered -- I had ventured away from the warmth of my apartment that morning to find a loaf of bread and a box of green tea; the brown bag in my hand was proof of that.  Now, I was marching through the rain in search of the street that would lead me home.
Savouring the wonderful dryness in the shop’s shelter and flexing my toes to rekindle warmth in them, I clutched with my free hand the glass rose in my coat pocket, as if for reassurance.  A beautifully crafted ornamental lapel pin, each small, glittering petal molded by hand, the rose had been a gift from a young woman I met in the midst of the War, in a land of unending dust and heat.  Our brief friendship had ended far too soon, for it had been fragile – just as this rose was fragile.  I would not wear the rose on the outside of my coat, because I was afraid it might be broken.
Just then, as my fingers left the glass petals, I caught an unexpected movement out of the corner of my eye.  Instinctively I looked up, scouring the shop fronts with the well-trained eyes of a reporter, only to find the street deserted.  That in itself was odd; although this part of the City was rather old and unpopular with the tourists who deemed it ‘rundown’, I had rarely seen it without the customary throng of people packing the sidewalks like sardines in a tin.  I reasoned that the downpour would be keeping many inside, and reluctantly stepped from beneath my shelter.
The falling rain was poison.  It contaminated my thoughts, making me think of things I did not want to think about.  Every spatter on my unprotected face brought agonizing memories; every wave of icy water over my shoes gave birth to images of sand and bloodshed.  No matter how much I wanted the rain to stop, it kept falling, every tiny drop an unshed tear shattering on the pavement.
I arrived on the doorstep of my apartment building, soaked through to the very marrow of my bones and shivering in the almost nonexistent morning light.  I was again grateful for the overhang above the door.  I did not enter at once, but instead stood huddled in the overhang for a moment to glance at the glass rose in my pocket once more.  In the few weeks since my return home, the precious rose had been my one source of comfort whenever I was in danger of losing myself to grief again.
But this time it held something new; a flicker of motion, barely noticeable and yet somehow unnerving all the same, was being reflected in the scarlet glass.  Aware that this was the second time I had caught something out of the corner of my eye in one short morning, and realizing that some small instinct inside of me was pricking with unease, I was careful not to whirl around immediately.  Instead, I took the rose from my pocket and held it low so that I could better see the image caught in its petals.
The source of my alertness was apparent at once.  There was a man up there, standing on the rooftop of the five-storey complex behind me.  Tilting the rose surreptitiously, I stared at his small reflection.  He wasn’t moving, and in my mind it seemed he was watching me.  Was I being followed, or was I simply being irrational?  As my mind turned over the possibility of someone wanting to mug me of all people, I left the front step of the apartment and instead slipped down the adjoining lane.
So intent was I upon making my escape that I nearly walked straight into the large, dark-suited figure who had come to a halt there.  But as I made to dodge the man, he called out to me.
“Mr. Paulsen.”
It wasn’t a question.  Warily, I paused and turned to face him.  He wore dark glasses and held a black umbrella over his head. “Yes?” I managed.  It occurred to me that more than anything else, I wanted to run.
“Mr. Paulsen, would you please come with me.”
I stared at him, panicking, my heart beating faster than it should.  “No,” I said, backing away.  “I can’t.”  I pressed the glass rose, still in my hand, against my body, as if it could protect me.
The tall man took a step towards me.  “Mr. Paulsen, don’t make this hard --”
Stumbling backwards, I shakily repeated, “I can’t!” and took off at a sprint, the mud splattering my face as I broke its surface.  The other man swore, but I was around the next corner before he could move so much as a finger.
Running blindly, I thought to glance once more to the rooftop of the five-story building that was now right beside me, and to my horror, there was still someone up there -- an indistinct shape, dark against the cloudy backdrop of pounding rain.  And this time, it seemed that there was something leaning over the parapet... a black tube swivelling to face me...
I heard something streak by on a blinding downward tangent very close to me, and then the crash of breaking glass, but I had darted just in time into the foyer of what seemed to be a decrepit theatre.  My heart seemed to be somewhere between my throat and my mouth by now, pounding a dangerous rhythm in time to the pulsing of adrenaline through my veins.  Although my job had kept me in good shape, my breath was now coming in sharp gasps as I ran.
The deluge was much harder to ignore inside, amplified by the lack of insulation in the crumbling structure.  There was a flight of stairs ahead, only just visible with the assistance of the gray light filtering through cracks in the warped walls.  I took the steps three at a time, hoping they wouldn’t collapse beneath my weight.
Disconnected thoughts flew through my mind, each more confusing than the last.  Why was I being hunted?  Who would want me dead?  I racked my brain desperately, for I could not recall ever making an enemy this dangerous....
And then it dawned on me.  I had been a journalist during one of the bloodiest wars the planet had ever seen.  I had been a humanitarian; I had revealed to the world the horrible and well-kept secrets of how other nations treated their citizens in times of crisis; I had been pushing for reform....
The door slammed open before me and I ground to a halt in the center of an open room; I had not even realized where my feet were taking me, but still I had arrived here.  The square room was decorated more warmly than the rest of the theatre, and may have been a manager’s office at one time.  The rain suddenly seemed quiet and almost peaceful as my attention fixed on a scuffed frame on the wall facing me.
It was a painting of a beautiful desert oasis.  Without realizing it, my mind emptied of any significant thoughts as I stared at the painting, willing my heart rate to slow.  When a few moments had passed, I looked down at the rose in my hand, and felt an intangible calmness seep through my skin.  I would hide here.  I would hide here for as long as I could, and I would be safe.
“It’s alright,” I murmured to those glass petals.  “It’s over now.  For both of us.”
I don’t know how long I stood there, but when I looked up again, I knew I was not alone.  Turning ever so slowly, I was somehow not at all surprised to see the black-suited man framed in the doorway.  I was not even surprised to see the gleaming pistol that was being trained on me.
“Mr. Paulsen,” the man rumbled from behind his black glasses.  “The War is over.”
It was the rose that shattered first.
I remember the splinters of scarlet glass, each one a tiny representation of her, of her beauty, of her grace, undulating out from the point of impact, catching the scant light and glittering like gray spirits.  And I fell backwards, holding nothing of the glass rose in my still outstretched hands but its memory, collapsing on the damp floor and yet feeling no pain.  The life faded from my limbs and darkness washed over me.

It wasn’t much later that I felt myself sitting up again, inexplicably.  I gazed at my shirt where I thought the bullet had pierced my skin, and was surprised to see no trace of blood whatsoever.  Then the memory of the rose came to me, and my gaze darted around the room in vain search of the ornament.  And then I noticed.  Instantly, I jerked to my feet, and time stood still.
She was standing there.
Standing before me in the middle of the dilapidated room and dressed in her simple navy robe was the woman I knew, my glass rose.  She smiled wordlessly at me, and we embraced, the whole world forgotten.  However, it wasn’t long before she drew back.
“It’s over,” she said quietly.
I looked into her eyes, deep-set in her brown face.  “Am I dead?” I murmured.
She put a hand on my shoulder, and I marvelled at its weight and its warmth -- such details the other products of my mind had never conveyed so well.  “I think you’ve been dead since the War.”
I nodded, understanding her meaning.  I turned over the matter of my mysterious hunters.  “And the others?”
“They will never again trouble you,” she said gently.
“Do you not exist either, then?”
She smiled once more, kindly.  “I will exist for as long as you wish me to.”
I took her hand in mine, and said softly, “Stay with me forever.”

I believe the old theatre manager, having forgotten some of his personal effects in the office, found my body there the next morning, seemingly unharmed in the midst of a field of broken red glass, and it was determined that I had died of untimely failure of the heart.