The Garden Party

Briony.
An original written by Alexandra.

Lilies (1911)
Frederick Carl

I sent out the invitations last month, in a
premature, flippant and feigned moment of lightness
and optimism.

These particular guests had been on my
mind for quite some time. I had lost touch
with them years ago – some as recently as in the last
couple of months. For a few, the detachment
was intentional – I did not want to know or speak
to them. The disappointment and despondence
were far too great to bear.

For some others, the distance was merely a
symptom of life. There was no epic declaration
or grand farewell. It was merely a day turning into
another, turning into a week, turning into what
can only be described as feeling like a lifetime.

I think, though, enough time has passed to reunite
amicably. I hope for all animosity, jealousy, betrayal
and heartache to dissipate. The weather has evidently
heard my thoughts and has parted all the clouds. It
has forged a window for the sun to illuminate the
beautiful table setting I have prepared.

The pristine and crisp white table cloth – a
clean slate. The cutlery growing larger as they
are placed closer to the dainty plates – time passing.
The delicate crystal glassware – a reminder of who we
all were, and quite possibly, still are.

I fold and fiddle with the already creased serviettes
once more. I have never been good at leaving
things be.

Finally, the first guest arrives. She is much different
to how I remember her. The despair remains true, but
she appears softer, more at peace. The next rolls in.
She looks more emboldened. Does she realise this is
a nice, sophisticated garden party? Why does she look
like she has been assigned a mission?

The next guests arrive gradually, like a tap’s drip.
They all look familiar, yet so alarmingly different
to how I recall. Some did not show at all.

I gesture to them to sit and dig in. We converse
in superficial fashion for a little too long – as if we
want to avoid the reason we are all gathered.
The elephant in this room is becoming enormous
and severely imposing. My goodness, shall we invite
her to pull up a chair?

The question I dread to ask manifests into a
golf ball lodged firmly in my throat.
It will not stop expanding. The clinking of
glasses and scrapes of cutlery on plates are
making me twitch. It is a hideous screech
that prolonged by its echoes in my mind. The anger
runs through my entire body like the
vacuum of water, channelling throughout
the ocean before a tsunami reaches shore.
The energy within makes a screeching
halt through to my fists, only to rebound
aggressively right back into the rest of my
body. This vigour needs an escape.

The noise suddenly ceases. I look up, stunned, to see
them all glaring back at me with their mouths agape.
They all look like they have seen a whole cohort of
ghosts.

It is silent, all I can hear is a steady drip on the
concrete – the sound likened to an old grandfather
clock. Metronomic, constant, taunting.

I see my wrists are clenched relentlessly to a
glistening silver knife that has cleanly punctured
my abdomen. My frilly white-corseted dress is
tarnished with the deepest red. Yet, strangely, I
feel nothing.

I look around the table and notice now
all the guests have my face. Some, a young self.
Others, quite similar to myself now. The littlest
one, in the corner, looks saddest of all.

All their faces now have loosened to a look
of unmistakable calm. As if they expected it – been
waiting for it.

“It does not hurt,” I whimper. The ghosts
of my past selves all stand up to gather
around me. The smallest one gently removes
the knife with her precious, innocent,
unaged hand.

“How come it does not hurt?” I insist.
“You had already died with all of us,” one replies.
I stare back at all their composed yet
grief-stricken faces.

“We have been waiting for you. You are now
whole again.”

Lady in the Garden in June (1911)
Frederick Carl