A Dusky Rose (Collection of Short Stories)
written by Winter Lily
Short stories that I've written over time. In chronological order. Trigger warnings are: Suicide, depression, anxiety, murder. I will write individual warnings for each story. Feedback is welcome
Last Updated
05/31/21
Chapters
12
Reads
501
That Dusk - Megan Elaine
Chapter 10
Dedicated to Megan Elaine - For all the long conversations, and the proof that even when opinions clash, things can run smoothly. And of course, for the prompt.
(24 February, 2018)
At dusk, death came to me in the form of a man.
The sky was particularly dark that night, dark clouds covering the horizon, obscuring my usual view of the sunset. I had always looked for it, whether from the beach, my kitchen window, or the front porch. It had always been there, at just the right time, it always had been like that. It had always been the thing to save me, the thing to warn me. Sunset was my preparation, my preparation for the nights. It was beautiful, but sometimes the most beautiful things hold the darkest secrets. In nature, bright colours and beautiful patterns can be a sign of danger, of venom and poison. The sunset held the same for me. I had always been fascinated with the colours and how they bled down the sky, creating the most beautiful colours, the most beautiful scenes. But for as long as I can remember, I had used it as an alarm. An alert to prepare me. And so the sunset had saved me, many, many times. As I had thought it would that night.
Dinner was set out on the table, placed for three, like always. Food, water, cutlery, all had been placed by myself, just moments earlier. Everything had always been like clockwork. Some people adore structure, some admire it, others just feel trapped. I had never had much of an opinion towards it. My life had always been structured, I had known no other way of living. Set times for everything helped things run smootly, or at least, that’s what I had told myself. Structure helped everything stay in place, or at least that’s what I had been told. Dinner had been simple, dinner was always simple. That’s how my father liked things, simple, or so he told us. I could never be truly sure, structure helped with that as well. The sun had completely set, leaving mere traces of colour through the dark grey clouds. The second warning.
There was a knock on the door, my brother. My dress had caught around my knees, I hurried to the door, opening it for him. There hadn’t ever been any time to stroll, not even in our own house. We laughed with the people who said that they sometimes wished they didn’t have any siblings, but we both knew that we would give anything for each other. And so we did. We gave and gave. My brother was the only thing, the only person who you couldn’t always know what he was doing by looking at the schedule. That day he had been at the front door, covered in mud and blood, his bag slung over his shoulder. He was grinning, despite the blood that had been dripping from his jaw down his neck. He shook his head at me before he walked inside and ran upstairs. And as concerned as I was, I didn’t run afrter him. I should have. I should have gone upstairs afterwards to see what was going on, but I didn’t. I followed the structure.
Dusk had finally fallen, my brother was cleaned up and sitting at his desk. He had his textbooks open and mountians of pens in front of him. I had been cleaning the kitchen. We were both oblivious, or as oblivious are we could manage, when the final alarm sounded. The car drove up the driveway and we both stood up. A quick glance was exchanged, as always, before he bolted to clean up his mess and I bolted to open the front door. Another quick glance around the house to make sure everything was tidy. And one more to make sure that each of us was clean. It was Friday, and we knew how things worked on Fridays, even more so than other days. This wasn’t something planned, though we always knew it was happen. It was burned into our brains, I never forgot. I know he won’t.
At dusk, death came to us in the form of a man.
Contrary to what people would think, our version of Death wasn’t made of decaying flesh and draped with black robes. Contrary to what most people would think, our version of Death wasn’t hated by everyone. Contrary to what most people would think, our versinon of Death didn’t live alone in some form of a hell, though I could argue that point. Death looked like any other middle-aged white man. He had dark hair and wore a suit. He always wore a suit. The only thing remarkably death-like about him was his eyes, they held the fire of a thousand hells and the hatred of a man who loved no one but himself. He had been coming to me forever. Me and my brother that is. Though he came to me first. But I only noticed how death-like he was when I turned twelve. My brother was eight at the time. It was only that dusk that I noticed how Death-like he was.
He drove up the driveway like any other man, and he parked better than some other men, he walked in the front door as normally as any other person, and he smiled. He always smiled on Fridays. He knew what happened on Fridays just as well as we did, and he probably knew what was going to happen on that Friday. He certainly looked forward to it more than I could ever imagine looking forward to it. The bruises along my arms and back had begun to throb, and my heart had begun to race as he walked upstairs. I could see my brother, his stance changing from that of a nonchalant boy to a wartorn soldier. Everything changed when Death stepped inside and things changed again when we heard the usual bang on the floor from upstairs. We began to race around, hugging each other, not knowing if that was going to be the last time, arranging the dinner bowls for the fifth time, wanting everything to be perfect. Everything had to be perfect.
We had been standing next to each other, like every week, as Death walked down the staris. His strides were always so slow, so leisurely. His mouth was always curved into a slight smirk, unnoticeable to anyone besides my brother and I, but we had spoken about it many times before, and we had always been sure that he was smirking, judging us. Well, we knew he was judging us. He had told us so, many times befor. With his infuriatingly slow steps, he finally made it down the stairs, his suit pristine and his eyes glinting. I could feel my brother inhaling as he approached is. “So. How have you been doing at school?” he asked us lazily, his hand slowly coming closer to me, so subtle no one would notice it, other than my brother and I.
“We’ve been doing fine. Right Alistair?” I replied, my voice sharper and mor erushed than it should have been.
“Pardon?” he asked, leaning towards my brother.
“We’ve been doing well at school,” I said, trying to make my voice softer. Trying, and failing.
The glint in his eye had become brighter with my failure and I could feel my brother trying to look like nothing was happening, and nothing was going to happen. But something was going to happen, and everyone knew. I had almost been able to feel the scars on my hips and back, like they were forming again. And then it happened. He grabbed me and all of a sudden, I was against the wall, his face milimeters away from mine. My brother had still been standing where he had been, I knew that he wouldn’t have moved. At the time, I wouldn’t have wanted him to. That would only have made things worse. So there I was, my back pressed up against the wall, dread rushing through me as I knew what would come next. Except, for once, I was wrong. It was so much worse that dusk, and I wish, I wish that for once, my brother had run and gotten himself away from there, but he just watched, as he knew he was meant to. I ended up on the floor that duck, so much worse than any other night.
That dusk, death came to me in the form of a man.
He was sitting on the beach, it was the ten year anniversary of That Dusk. He missed her more than ever now. He was twenty and had grown up without her. Death had never come to him, but it almost did. That Dusk was the worst, death had come to her and he had been hurt more than he had ever been hurt before. There were scars all over him as proof. Nothing could have been worse than That Dusk, and sometimes he had wished that death had come to him. But he was alive, and he didn’t regret it. He missed her, but he never regretted staying alive. He was safe now, and everything, everything that he made, he thought of her while he was doing it. The scars didn’t matter so much anymore, he was okay. He was safe.
(24 February, 2018)
At dusk, death came to me in the form of a man.
The sky was particularly dark that night, dark clouds covering the horizon, obscuring my usual view of the sunset. I had always looked for it, whether from the beach, my kitchen window, or the front porch. It had always been there, at just the right time, it always had been like that. It had always been the thing to save me, the thing to warn me. Sunset was my preparation, my preparation for the nights. It was beautiful, but sometimes the most beautiful things hold the darkest secrets. In nature, bright colours and beautiful patterns can be a sign of danger, of venom and poison. The sunset held the same for me. I had always been fascinated with the colours and how they bled down the sky, creating the most beautiful colours, the most beautiful scenes. But for as long as I can remember, I had used it as an alarm. An alert to prepare me. And so the sunset had saved me, many, many times. As I had thought it would that night.
Dinner was set out on the table, placed for three, like always. Food, water, cutlery, all had been placed by myself, just moments earlier. Everything had always been like clockwork. Some people adore structure, some admire it, others just feel trapped. I had never had much of an opinion towards it. My life had always been structured, I had known no other way of living. Set times for everything helped things run smootly, or at least, that’s what I had told myself. Structure helped everything stay in place, or at least that’s what I had been told. Dinner had been simple, dinner was always simple. That’s how my father liked things, simple, or so he told us. I could never be truly sure, structure helped with that as well. The sun had completely set, leaving mere traces of colour through the dark grey clouds. The second warning.
There was a knock on the door, my brother. My dress had caught around my knees, I hurried to the door, opening it for him. There hadn’t ever been any time to stroll, not even in our own house. We laughed with the people who said that they sometimes wished they didn’t have any siblings, but we both knew that we would give anything for each other. And so we did. We gave and gave. My brother was the only thing, the only person who you couldn’t always know what he was doing by looking at the schedule. That day he had been at the front door, covered in mud and blood, his bag slung over his shoulder. He was grinning, despite the blood that had been dripping from his jaw down his neck. He shook his head at me before he walked inside and ran upstairs. And as concerned as I was, I didn’t run afrter him. I should have. I should have gone upstairs afterwards to see what was going on, but I didn’t. I followed the structure.
Dusk had finally fallen, my brother was cleaned up and sitting at his desk. He had his textbooks open and mountians of pens in front of him. I had been cleaning the kitchen. We were both oblivious, or as oblivious are we could manage, when the final alarm sounded. The car drove up the driveway and we both stood up. A quick glance was exchanged, as always, before he bolted to clean up his mess and I bolted to open the front door. Another quick glance around the house to make sure everything was tidy. And one more to make sure that each of us was clean. It was Friday, and we knew how things worked on Fridays, even more so than other days. This wasn’t something planned, though we always knew it was happen. It was burned into our brains, I never forgot. I know he won’t.
At dusk, death came to us in the form of a man.
Contrary to what people would think, our version of Death wasn’t made of decaying flesh and draped with black robes. Contrary to what most people would think, our version of Death wasn’t hated by everyone. Contrary to what most people would think, our versinon of Death didn’t live alone in some form of a hell, though I could argue that point. Death looked like any other middle-aged white man. He had dark hair and wore a suit. He always wore a suit. The only thing remarkably death-like about him was his eyes, they held the fire of a thousand hells and the hatred of a man who loved no one but himself. He had been coming to me forever. Me and my brother that is. Though he came to me first. But I only noticed how death-like he was when I turned twelve. My brother was eight at the time. It was only that dusk that I noticed how Death-like he was.
He drove up the driveway like any other man, and he parked better than some other men, he walked in the front door as normally as any other person, and he smiled. He always smiled on Fridays. He knew what happened on Fridays just as well as we did, and he probably knew what was going to happen on that Friday. He certainly looked forward to it more than I could ever imagine looking forward to it. The bruises along my arms and back had begun to throb, and my heart had begun to race as he walked upstairs. I could see my brother, his stance changing from that of a nonchalant boy to a wartorn soldier. Everything changed when Death stepped inside and things changed again when we heard the usual bang on the floor from upstairs. We began to race around, hugging each other, not knowing if that was going to be the last time, arranging the dinner bowls for the fifth time, wanting everything to be perfect. Everything had to be perfect.
We had been standing next to each other, like every week, as Death walked down the staris. His strides were always so slow, so leisurely. His mouth was always curved into a slight smirk, unnoticeable to anyone besides my brother and I, but we had spoken about it many times before, and we had always been sure that he was smirking, judging us. Well, we knew he was judging us. He had told us so, many times befor. With his infuriatingly slow steps, he finally made it down the stairs, his suit pristine and his eyes glinting. I could feel my brother inhaling as he approached is. “So. How have you been doing at school?” he asked us lazily, his hand slowly coming closer to me, so subtle no one would notice it, other than my brother and I.
“We’ve been doing fine. Right Alistair?” I replied, my voice sharper and mor erushed than it should have been.
“Pardon?” he asked, leaning towards my brother.
“We’ve been doing well at school,” I said, trying to make my voice softer. Trying, and failing.
The glint in his eye had become brighter with my failure and I could feel my brother trying to look like nothing was happening, and nothing was going to happen. But something was going to happen, and everyone knew. I had almost been able to feel the scars on my hips and back, like they were forming again. And then it happened. He grabbed me and all of a sudden, I was against the wall, his face milimeters away from mine. My brother had still been standing where he had been, I knew that he wouldn’t have moved. At the time, I wouldn’t have wanted him to. That would only have made things worse. So there I was, my back pressed up against the wall, dread rushing through me as I knew what would come next. Except, for once, I was wrong. It was so much worse that dusk, and I wish, I wish that for once, my brother had run and gotten himself away from there, but he just watched, as he knew he was meant to. I ended up on the floor that duck, so much worse than any other night.
That dusk, death came to me in the form of a man.
He was sitting on the beach, it was the ten year anniversary of That Dusk. He missed her more than ever now. He was twenty and had grown up without her. Death had never come to him, but it almost did. That Dusk was the worst, death had come to her and he had been hurt more than he had ever been hurt before. There were scars all over him as proof. Nothing could have been worse than That Dusk, and sometimes he had wished that death had come to him. But he was alive, and he didn’t regret it. He missed her, but he never regretted staying alive. He was safe now, and everything, everything that he made, he thought of her while he was doing it. The scars didn’t matter so much anymore, he was okay. He was safe.
