The White Chrysanthemums

The White Chrysanthemums

A Summit Entertainment Film

D. W. Everard

Presents

‘The White Chrysanthemums’

White stretches of padded walls surround me. Silver light blinds me momentarily, as if artificial moons had been placed in this room.

…

Act One

It’s hard to believe that we were once golden – William Everard and I. I was a rising star, in the angel’s city chasing fortune and fame; his name was already cemented in Hollywood’s legacy. And fated was that day that I met him! It was the most glorious of the two Sundays I had in Boston, when the movie I starred in came to a close. We had a widely publicized wedding; you’d still find pictures of us in those old get-love-quick magazines. He locked in his vows, and I in turn, locked in mine. We bought a new house together in the suburbs, and by god we were happy.

Soon, we both wanted a family. And one moon, by some miracle, my pregnancy test returned positive. William was simply elated at the news: he would come up with the most elaborate futures for our little one.

…

Act Two

As the days turned, I grew fond of that budding babe. Her kicks came hourly. She loved me and I, in turn, loved her. Our relationship was built on mutual comfort, trust, and care.

It was then when things started changing.

A shower of shooting stars arrived early that night. William was out of town, starring in a new motion picture. And on this, such a fated night, the full moon was perched high atop the sea of woolen storm, casting its lunar veil over the town. Its timid glow reflected off chimneys and weathervanes, and the little rooftops bathed in her docile light. My baby had always been partial to the moonlight; she would stop kicking so vigorously under the moon’s silver tinge– so much so that I had resolved to name her ‘Diana’, after the goddess of the moon.

But on this, such a fated night, the world was quieter than it had ever been. An overwhelming lightness weighed on my body, a relief I couldn’t quite credit. My breath came more easily. The white satin of my nightgown was stained.

Blood. Dark red like the roses my admirers gifted me.

…

Act Three

From that moment, the Earth tilted off its axis, its orbit derailed and askew. From the heart of this unwavering darkness, my uneven breaths were unheard by strangers and confidants of the world alike. It was as if I was underwater.

In the bathroom mirror, wiping away her tears in a futile attempt to compose herself, stood a shivering, scared little girl with fear-full eyes that I did not recognize. That night, I watched as my upper lip trembled dangerously, as my head shook violently, as I collapsed. Grief’s gravity pulled at my strings. I fell so hard I feared I may never be able to rise again. I sobbed– loud, convulsive gasps escaping my purpled lips. I covered my ears to block out the terrible noise.

…

Act Four

Several sleepless nights came to pass. On such nights, the moon sang, lamenting my ghost-child. My pen-hand would tremble in deepest longing as I would write to her, letter after letter. Of all things, I remember these words most:

‘My dearest Diana,

It’s almost midnight, but I’m up again, in the moon’s bluish light, wondering. Wondering what would’ve been– in that world where I would have had you all to myself.

I bought a vase of white chrysanthemums today. The florist said they were symbols of remembrance. You occupy my mind every damn day and night, so I thought they would be fitting. Please know, that I never meant for this to happen. I regret you all the time. You were my best four months…’

And then, with quivering hands:

‘I love you to the moon and back...’

The same subdued phrases, same hollow feeling, same stinging tears. I had become a gramophone, useless in the loss of her records. Eventually, my writing trailed off into inky blotches, becoming undecipherable in the silver moonlight. I tried to bargain with the stars, but every time I am blessed with only this oppressive moonshine, over and over again. I rolled over into bed, wallowing in my insomnia. I feared I would dream of her.

…

Act Five

Each morning, I fixed the chrysanthemums, never satisfied with the arrangements I had made before. And they sang to me! Each night, they sang a choral hymn which gradually bit away at my baneful existence. I slowly realized I heard her phantom cries in those terrible melodies.

Then, William came back. By then, I had resolved to not tell him: fame teaches you to trust no-one with your emotions. I kept to myself largely. And at such times, the streets have started whispering.

Whispers which carry into my nights. Tonight, through the curtain’s lacy dance, the moon-carriage was– as ever– perched high atop the sea of woolen storm. The Huntress Diana, in her totalitarian beauty, casts her unreachable glow on my town. Her silver wisdom had blessed my ghost-child, whose namesake came therein. Tonight, the tide swayed, tracing her interconnected song of the terrestrial and the divine– and slowly– ever-so-slowly, the sea moved in concentric circles. I opened the window, and likewise did my eyes, and I let the night consume me awhile, the flighty temptress. Then, came that plaintive warbling of my chrysanthemums, in their desolate longingness for moonshine: escalating to some terrible dissonant harmonies tragic enough to drive anyone insane. And I knew then, and assert to this day, that I must absolutely get it for her: she’s always been partial to the moonlight.

The carriage shone near tonight. Such destiny was never to come again!

So I placed my chrysanthemums gingerly underneath the rungs of the ladder I had produced from the attic– its legs nested firmly on the windowsill. The moon-carriage measured what I surmised to be a mere few miles yonder heavenwards. Hence, I began my climb. The night air rang cold with its treacherous laughter, and winds were lethal as ready-knived deceptions under the dining table.

This all a retaliation of nature, with purpose nought, but to oppose an unborn child– but nevermind that! I mustn’t forfeit! My chrysanthemums continued to wail in their relentless crescendo– some superstitious note. That forbidden fruit seemed now but an arm’s length away, yet I could not grasp it. Has Diana become selfish with her light? Has greed stolen unto her chambers? Never has the moon-carriage been so cold to a pious youth. I climbed further, despite this crisis of my faith. The very last rung arrives, and the shine departs farther. My fingertips outstretched, I grazed the glow. Further. I reached. Further. It evaded. And I am at such a terrible height where one misstep meant a journey to the Asphodel Meadows.

…

From then on, my recollections fail me. For thrice then did the moon rotate around the decades of the Earth. Matches burned. Lessons learned. Pages turned.

Now I’m contained here. In this white sparseness. My chrysanthemums were the only thing they allowed me in here. I talk to them everyday. And sometimes, they’d whisper back to me, in the unmistakable voice of William Everard:

“She’s gone completely senile. She’s talking to that wilted flower.”

Fin