Mileva Anastasiadou

The Fantasy of Violet Rose


Violet Rose is not a flower, although she’d rather be one. Violet Rose is a girl, who looks like a boy, who looks like a flower. She’s old enough to be a woman, yet she isn’t and she will never be. 


We first met at school. She spent her time daydreaming, while I remained focused in class. Despite my efforts, she was the one to gain the sympathy of most teachers. Her soft manners, her pixie haircut and floral dresses made a strong impression wherever she went. I longed to learn the sad story hiding behind her melancholic eyes. She shrugged and walked away when I asked, like she denied access to her mind. I wasn’t persistent, yet I kept watching her from afar. I secretly envied her flowery predisposition, her individuality. I’ve never been good at being myself. I’ve been good at finding patterns, repeating them to have the best possible results, I’ve been talented enough to mimic my way into success. Yet I didn’t mind that much, or so I thought. What truly mattered was my goal, while she seemed to lack ambitions, as if she didn’t need any. I didn’t know then, yet that happened because Violet had vowed to never grow up, while I, like most kids, was too impatient to wait. 


We lost touch with Violet but later in life, we met at a coffee shop. She was ahead of me in line, but I hadn’t noticed her. I only saw her face, when the cashier asked if we were together, so that he could move on to the next customer. We aren’t together, I said, but what if we were, I thought. I took my coffee and looked discreetly her way from time to time, for I couldn’t avoid wondering how our life would be if we were together. She then approached me and looked me right in the eye. She hugged me as if we had been best friends in high school, as if we hadn’t only exchanged a couple of words during our school years. I instinctively pulled back and laughed inside for a while. I didn’t know what others saw in her. What I saw in her. Or is it we all secretly regretted growing up?


*


Violet Rose is not a flower, despite common belief. Yet she smells like one. She smells like violets and roses. She does that on purpose, to confuse people who take her for a flower and then treat her like one. 


She’d only settle for a job that allowed her to stay young, she said. She never liked the idea of growing up. She was the female version of Peter Pan, only she never realized what she’d miss, escaping adulthood, I thought. Violet hated moralistic tales. Otherwise, she loved fairy tales. In fact she lived in one of her own. Maturity is overrated, she’d say. She’d rather be a rock star, for Violet plays the violin, but went into advertising instead. It was easier and Violet didn’t like trying too much.


On our first date, I had carefully chosen a bouquet of roses for her. She gave it back claiming it hurt her to see herself multiplied, then cut in two. She wasn’t only Rose, but also Violet, she said. It would have been nicer if I had found violet roses. That’s close to impossible, I told her, thinking that’d make her upset, but Violet’s face brightened up as she said: sure, there’s only one me. 


Back then, we were all in a band. Or dreamt we were. We dreamt we had a band of our own, like others before us wanted a house, a job or a family. So, we had a band and she decided on the name: Magic Dandelions Magically Arise. Like ‘Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds’, she said, only more contemporary. That was a song, I objected, not the name of a band. She rolled her eyes like she didn’t care. Like I went into details and she never liked details. 


Truth be told, I wasn’t into the Beatles at the time. I was more into Violent Femmes. Funnily enough, I had my herpes simplex infection manifested for the first time that year. When the doctor mentioned herpes, after thoroughly examining the blisters on my upper lip, I felt ashamed, like I had done something wrong. Then came the song. I insisted we played it every time we met, only now though I realize the reason; I didn’t know yet but in hindsight, I was happy like a blister in the sun. For that was the summer we fell in love. 

She didn’t like Violent Femmes. Violet didn’t like violence, not even in a band name. She preferred playing the Beatles. And she whispered the lyrics: ‘Cellophane flowers of violet and green’, she’d say.  I once told her the flowers were yellow and green but that didn’t change much. She went on singing the wrong version. She went on doing her thing, like she always does. 


*


Violet Rose is not a flower, despite what her name suggests. She’s a girl, refusing to grow into a woman. 


I’m not sure when we grew apart. Violet would be the manic pixie girl to save me so I could save her and so on. We’d end up into that vicious circle of saving each other endlessly, like it usually happens in books and films and songs, only fate chose otherwise. What had been a dream wasn’t enough anymore. Like the clothes I wore twenty years ago now seem ridiculous, although I remember feeling confident wearing them back then. What I think is that pop culture sustained the connection between us, only the connection faded and that pop culture lingers on for a while longer, until it will also fade along with us. So, feelings change. Opinions change. Love goes away, only some people can’t stand change. Especially those who refuse to grow up. 


Violet now stares into the void, holding a glass of vodka with her two hands. She whispers sweet lullabies in my ear and I hear her violin for a while, only I know it’s nostalgia acting out on me, for she can’t play anymore. She’s that weak, only this time it’s true. I can’t blame her pixie haircut, her floral dress, her otherworldly voice, or her trembling hands. She claims she wishes to defeat death but she’s tired of fixing things all the time. I demand she lets me help her, but she insists she’s beyond repair. She smiles as if she doesn’t mind. She’s well prepared, she says, before closing her eyes. 


*


Violet Rose is not a flower, for flowers die and she’ll live forever. She’s delicate and fragile and arrogant, the way Little Prince’s rose was delicate, fragile and arrogant. But that rose died while she has earned her way into eternity. She’s Winona Ryder in Autumn in New York, only we’re the same age. She’s all girls in supporting roles, in films made by men who feel nostalgic. Violet insists she’s not a flower, that she never had a sad story to tell, her eyes weren’t melancholic, claiming I made her a flower without her consent. She has entrusted me with her memorial account, only she’s not certain anymore. I find that sweet, I tell her. Entrusting someone with your death is the greatest act of love. I gave her the role I needed her to have, I loved a fantasy instead of her, she now claims, regretting her decision, but it’s too late. I know well other people provide the context of our lives, only Violet will never accept that. She’ll claim her freedom forever, she says. She’ll destroy my narrative in the end, she yells on her deathbed, only I’m the one who survived to tell the story and my story will live on for it’s the story of the winner. 


Violet Rose is a flower. A ‘cellophane flower’ of violet and green, lingering over my head. Or a magic dandelion that magically appeared under my feet, through the cement, on my porch, the one I crashed stepping on it, unwillingly, or so I claim and people believe me.


Mileva Anastasiadou is a neurologist, from Athens, Greece. A Pushcart, Best of the Net and Best Small Fictions nominated writer, her work can be found in many journals, such as Gone LawnLitroJellyfish ReviewQueen Mob's Tea HouseMoon Park ReviewOkay Donkey and others.