The Dragonfly and Raven

The Dragonfly and Raven

Sunday, April 5, 2015

The Eyes of the Orchid

It stared at him. He didn't quite know how, but it was staring at him. It didn't have any eyes, nor did it have ears to hear that he was coming, or a nose to smell him. Yet there it was, staring at him, the orchid. It was just sitting there in its pot, soaking in rays from the sun—staring at him. It had three main budding flowers, pure white that looked as soft as snow. The center of the flowers was a light—but rich—violet. Those three violet centers served as its eyes, staring him down, making him question his purpose. The more that he stared at it, the more he became unnerved. It felt like it was getting closer to him, this most sinister orchid. It made him feel claustrophobic within the large open room that he had all to himself.

The more that he looked around, the more he realized that it was not just the white-violet orchid that was looking at him. Right next to it was a green, shrub-like plant. It too was watching him. The goldfish in the tank were watching him. The dragonfly sculpture above was watching him. The painting of sunflowers on the wall, the man on his coffee mug, the door picture of his family. They were all watching him. He started to hyperventilate. The world seemed to be closing in around him. The room was getting smaller and smaller. The hairs on his head stood on end, and he began to shake uncontrollably. Then, there came a knocking on the door.

It was as though someone had shined a light into the depths of a very dark cave. He saw this beacon of hope, and strode toward it, jumping out of his chair, and away from the eyes that watched him. He glanced over his shoulder on his way to the door, still nervous. But everything was returning to normal again, the room back to its normal size. He stopped shaking, and his breathing calmed. He stopped for a brief moment before the door, closing his eyes, and taking a deep breathe. Then, he opened the door, smiling.