The Gardener

I was sitting at home. It was dark. There had been reports of a mysterious serial killer in my area, so all my doors and windows were locked. He had killed a number of people already, yet he had left no evidence.

Soon I noticed a man running through my backyard chased by a figure whom I could not make out. He was caught and the mysterious figure sliced open a major blood vessel in his lower right leg. The mysterious figure then retreated into the shadows to watch his impending death from a distance.

Eventually the wounded man made it to my door and asked for help. Two of my friends who were there drove the man to a clinic while I looked for the mysterious figure. I used my presence to create a diversion, preventing the mysterious figure from pursuing the car. After I felt they were safe I went to the clinic myself.

As I arrived they were coming back out--the wounded man's injuries were too great and he needed to be taken to the hospital. I looked out the rear window to see if the mysterious man was there, when I was surprised by a yell by the driver--"I've been poisoned!" His hands had become swollen and it was difficult to steer. His breathing became quick. My other friend took over before she too came down with the same symptoms.

Then I took over, but as I was leaning over from the back seat I too got the swollen hands. Then we noticed a pair of gardening gloves in the middle console, lightly dusted with powder--that was the source of the poison! And in the rear view mirror we saw him, suddenly: the gardener.

We rushed to the hospital. We sped past some cops who pursued us, but we didn't stop. They chased us all the way to the emergency entrance of the general hospital. My friends rushed him inside, while I threw the gloves at the cops screaming warnings about poison and about the gardener who was probably invading our respective homes trying to erase all evidence for his existence, including our lives. By merely telling the officer about him her life was now in danger!

Then I woke up.

Beautiful

I saw an old friend today.

She looked like she had been through a natural disaster. Her hair was dishevelled, and a bit damp. Her clothes looked like she was desperately trying anything to stay warm, regardless of what those clothes happened to look like. Her face looked exhausted. She looked like a mess and not very attractive.

Later, I google searched for hot women in dresses on the internet. After a few minutes, I quit, because they didn't look all that hot. I mean, yes, they looked "hot," if "hot" had a specific definition and could be factory-produced. Makeup here, here, and here; this colour with this colour; this certain expression. They just weren't... attractive.

I just kept comparing the models to my friend and the models just couldn't compare, even though she was not at her best. Why was that?

I thought about it some more. The models looked shallow, fake, unreal. Maybe her colours clashed, but she was less than a foot away from me. Her curves were real; her complexion was real; she was three-dimensional, living, breathing, right there.

So there you have it. People are real. Pictures aren't. Real is beautiful. Fake is not. Alive looks dynamic. Inanimate looks... dead.

P.S. And if you're reading this, dear friend, you're supposed to take this as a silent compliment.