Rose-Colored Glasses

Leaves of ivy dance with the wind outside, tapping on the window, shadows waltzing on the floor. Blurred rays of early-morning sun dim the courtroom, casting a ghostly iridescence amongst the melancholy eyes of the jury, all trying to analyze my demeanor. 

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury! Do I strike you as a gentle artist who admires impressionist paintings in museums on rainy days?  The prosecution asks you to paint my face at the brutal crime scene they describe, but you just can’t seem to. I see the confusion on your faces: just how on earth did this man find himself in this room? 

As clouds obscure the remaining sun, the prosecutor steps towards the bench and lays before the palpable minds of the jury a final piece of evidence to chew on, Exhibit #3: A myriad of photographs showing my fingerprints at the scene of the crime. 

Amidst the echoing pitter-patter of sudden rain, some of you steal a glance at me; I wonder, what do you see?  Do your despondent eyes look upon my screaming orange jumpsuit and see a handsome, falsely incriminated man, or do they see the bloodlusts of my alleged crimes?  

Interrupting my monologue, the prosecutor’s knife-like tongue cuts up my daze with his closing argument, slicing cleanly their final statements before the court:

“Your Honor, members of the jury, not only was the defendant’s DNA found at the scene of crime, witness testaments further prove that he was in the vicinity at the estimated time of death of the victim Rose Clark.” 

“Rose.” Hearing your name pours petrol on my burning heart, my thoughts in a smoky haze of you, again.  

Swiftly, the prosecution continues: “The evidence presented here today prove the twisted mental state of this man” (look at the way they’re looking at me, Rose. Such disbelief! How could this man be so cruel? Inconceivable!) “-a fact shown by his lack of remorse and responsibility for his crime. Ladies and gentlemen, may these photos of Miss Clark’s marred body sway your verdict towards justice. Due to the nature of this crime, I implore you to find this man guilty of murder in the first degree.” 

Solemnly sent away, the jury shuffle past. I return their passing gazes, thinking:  I dare you, feel the cunning of my smirk in your bones; look upon my thorned lungs and breathe the sweet poison of my darling, painted red, Rose; see her manufactured tempest raging in my mind – raging, raging, raging. Only then would you understand the excitement I feel, the anticipation! 

The sun peaks through the clouds for just a moment as my attorney approaches me.

My Rose, my perfect day I owe all to you: I’ll be acquitted of the law, yet never acquitted of you.  But don’t fret, my darling Rose. My perfect day starts here, and will end with the end of you.

Golden hands of the clock melt away as my attorney attempts to enlighten me on the vantage points of my case; their droning voice blocks out the rest of the courtroom, building stairs for my imagination to climb up, elevating my mind out of the commotion – higher and higher, passing clouds, vividly dreaming up my latest reality, floating into the stratosphere. It is here, between infinite space and crashing waves that I find myself gouging out the miscalculations of my perfect day’s schedule: the trial ended late, but soon enough my verdict should reveal itself from the mouths of the jury - that is the beginning of our new love story, Rose. 

Amidst my bubbling concoction of ideas, a few of my attorney’s silky words manage to streamline through my ears, rippling in my head; some heavier stones, like “loophole” and “definite win” disturb the waters of my mind with greater force, creating a waterfall, rushing water in my veins. My excitement burns like a flame I dare not grasp, not yet. Is it improper to smile at a murder trial? 

The judge calls my attorney aside, and her scuttle brings me back to the courtroom’s desolate hearts, beating in sync with the tedious tick of the clock. Waiting. My eyes flicker like candlelight to the roman numerals on the clock, following the stride of the minute hand: Rose should be here soon.

Silent melancholia slowly morphs into reticent gossip, accompanied by the murmurs of wind outside, increasing in velocity: a storm is coming. Reclining in my chair, I return to my wonderland, not focusing on the echoes of background chatter. Instead, Rose ambles about in the corridors of my mind, stumbling into obscure rooms of my brain: every luminous thought of her taking over my train of thought, steering it off of its tracks; reclaiming what she had tried so hard to do away with.

Eventually I slip into the rabbit hole of my memories: the acute heartache, the moment I walked into Rose’s room that night, how it seemed that all sound had left the room with my breath; my heart stopped as I grabbed her hand, soft, still warm. The disfigured corpse held me as I sobbed into what was left of her chest. You would have fooled me, Rose, if it wasn’t for the tattoo. 

Abruptly seizing me from my thoughts is the ear-piercing screech of the courtroom’s great wooden doors being driven open: a frail hand appears, followed by their owner, advancing towards the front bench – she glances at me, holding me hostage with her eyes, smirking - within moments a tangle of thorned vines slither across the courtroom, writhing up the defendant’s stand, twisting and squeezing and weaving around my neck – with my last breath: “Rose.” 

Rose! You expect me to be surprised, of course. When will you realise you couldn’t fool me? You pretend you don’t notice me watching you take a seat in the front bench, gracefully folding your legs one over the other, tilting your face up just enough so I can glimpse at your honey eyes, analyzing the scene from under the hat you’ve decided to wear today; smooth curls dangle out from underneath the hat, a newly dyed shade of blonde, shining the way Amanda’s did. The hat, I now realise, covers your brown roots. 

Someone is talking to Rose, offering his condolences. I can’t help but contort myself around my seat to listen in: words float about me, some out of reach, others land in my hands: 

He spoke in broken pieces of glass: “-he stalked her, I heard? Relentlessly pursued- “

Rose spoke convincingly, too sure of herself, not realizing her mistake: “-so irreversibly mad about her, it has to be him, the DNA evidence-.” 

A thought (I am willing to sacrifice a few words of their conversation to express): I am truly so irreversibly mad about you – but you, you turned mad because of me. 

“-it is truly an awful loss, Miss Clark.” 

Rose lifts her eyes to him for just a moment, long enough to imitate emotional torment, speaking in a voice close to tears: “Please, call me Amanda.” 

Realizing my eyes are on her, she turns my way, meeting my gaze with her honey eyes, overflowing, drowning me in their thick intensity – for a moment, I can see it: Rose’s golden, calculating eyes stealing the last glimpse of light of Amanda’s, enclosing them in darkness forever; Rose’s soft hands carving, sculpting my crime scene. 

Throwing my words strategically, “You thought I didn’t know.”

She catches them without anyone noticing, and whispers,  

 “You wouldn’t leave me alone. I had to.” 

You turn away from me, leaving me tangled in threads. You think you’ve gotten the better of me – your demise is yet to come. 

“Rose- “ 

You don’t look back, but a jerk of your shoulder tells me I have your attention.

“-this is my perfect day.”

A minute, or two, or three, or forty pass before the jury returns, and the head juror hands the judge that fateful piece of paper – Rose sits up, watching me. Waiting to see my reaction. Waiting to see me rot. A few calls to order and the room is silenced: everyone too scared to breathe, unsure of what to anticipate. The thunder booms again as the judge speaks, roaring throughout the courtroom. 

“Ladies and gentlemen of the court, the jury has concluded the verdict of the defendant John Mason.”

My head throbs – just wait Rose, just a moment, then you’re mine. Just wait. You’re yet to see you shouldn’t have killed Amanda; you couldn’t throw away your identity to get rid of me. 

“After hours of debate and discussion, the jury has concluded that defendant John Mason is guilty of the atrocious first-degree murder of Rose Clark, and sentenced to life in prison with no chance of parole.” 

Ruins, my world disintegrates to ruins; crumbling pieces of my shattered world slip through my hands. Before the guards seize me, Rose leans over, smiling slyly, cunningly and coldly whispering:

“It’s my perfect day now.”