The Scent of Jasmine

The pungent and sickly sweet smell of dying Jasmine filled the poky room, invading every cramped corner. Despite the fact that the weather was beginning to become warm inside a fire was flickering, holding a conversation with itself. Outside was only darkness, darkness so thick it would stick to your body like treacle. It turned the once transparent window, now translucent smeary window into a black opaque glass sheet.1

The fire cast its light onto the window, which in turn reflected the light down onto the sunken cheekbones of the old woman on the rusted bed. Life outside was just beginning, inside it was ending. She was not sad, she had dealt with all her sadness long ago. Now she looked forwards to seeing the bright light after living for so long in the darkness of loneliness. 2

Curled on her hollow chest was an elderly white cat, dribbling slightly onto the woman’s stained night-dress. He would have been called Jasmine, if he had been female. The old woman’s favourite flower, its small scented flowers like white silk matched the cat’s silky coat. When she had found out he was a male, she had changed his name to Jasper. Now the cat’s coat was slightly yellowed and tufted, but it still matched the dying Jasmine flowers.3

One Jasmine flower fell from the veteran plant that twisted it’s way across the ceiling. The flower drifted in one lazy arc, fluttering gently in the fire’s breeze. Softly it landed on the cold bare flagstones. A mouse, startled by its movement dashed the short distance to the cupboard, then inched through the gap in the door. The small hairy body twisted frantically, it’s nose tantalising it with the smells of foods past and present. Past foods were innumerable, and remembered only by the cracked warped wood of the cupboard. Present foods were scarce, but enough for a mouse. The last stale biscuit was removed from its packet, rustling the plastic. It was nibbled genteelly, twisted round and round by paws built for scrabbling, until only crumbs on long whiskers told of it’s existence. 4

Perpetually hungry the mouse continued it’s search for food in the cupboard, but it was unsuccessful, so left the way it had come. Once outside it eyed the cat, but his eyes were tightly closed. It found a black and white photograph that had drifted out of it’s frame on the cabinet above. The frame was undecorated wood with glass that had broken long ago. One bite ascertained that the picture was inedible, and it was left almost intact. The picture showed a middle aged woman with coiled grey hair and gentle laughing eyes standing beside a younger woman. The middle aged woman was the old woman twenty years ago, the younger woman was her daughter.5

Tomorrow afternoon the younger woman will enter the house. Tears will fall on the flagstones, which will ignore them. They are cold and hard and devoid of emotions. How easy their lives must be. The woman will clutch at her own child, and her tears will smooth down his soft blond hair. This child is not made of stone, and will cry too. He has not known his grandmother as long as his mother, but although he isn’t sure what he is crying about, he senses the grief and it distresses him.6

However that is tomorrow, which has not happened yet. Now there is only the crackle of the fire, and the wheezy breathing of the cat and his Mistress. They are wheezing in harmony together, two of the cat’s breaths to every one of the old woman’s. Then they fall out of rhythm, as the old woman’s breaths get slower. And then there are only the cat’s breaths, he feels the body heat leave the corpse underneath him, and gets off. Using his nose to push open the door, he leaves to go and find something to eat. The fire has died down completely now, all that remains is the scent of Jasmine.7