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A Death of Roses

Short story By: Aranea
Other



A rose, so perfect, so ... cut short for a pretty tablepiece.


Submitted:May 23, 2007    Reads: 103    Comments: 1    Likes: 1   


A Death of Roses

In the silhouette of crimson dagger, a rose unfolds its bloom defiantly before my eyes. I am afraid. I am afraid of my sanity, for if I am sane then surely…surely the world has gone mad. I see the dagger drawing closer… closer to the pale petal lip and I grimace. The thought of the chill cold steel against that pale, perfect lip…I look away. The dagger stops its sin-spun decent, hesitating… hovering above the rose, eager and quivering to bite deep, the perfect crimson flesh of the bud. The dagger mocks me as it gleams the light across its blade…twisting, glimmering for the proper angle at which to strike and stroke the chill length across the bloom. I am chilled. I am cold…I quiver. I turn my eyes back with morbid perversion as the dagger begins to touch that petal…caress down the pungent and perfumed rose until the dagger reaches the hub of that crimson's life. My hand reaches forward. I attempt to save. I attempt to comfort?… the rose and caress my fingertips across its petals and body stem. I get bitten! My thumb torn by a thorn that is now crimson and defiled with my blood… a sacrifice paid to the beauty and goddess of the rose. I grasp firmly upon the stem like a jealous and spurned lover eager for the taste of revenge, though still, love was in my eyes. I goad the dagger closer. I tempt the dagger. I tease the dagger with images of its purpose. I point with my thumb and guide the flashing blade across the throat of the stem… slashing it… slicing it quickly upon the thorny body of the rose. I point to another rose… the dagger follows, eager, bloodthirsty as it slices rose after rose upon my bushes. I stand back from the bush, smiling with perverse glee at the bouquet at my feet.

"Rose?" A voice breaks me from my gardening. I look up. My husband looks to me… and smiles. "I think you need a new hobby." We laugh and go back inside to find water and a vase.

Our laughter is the last thing the roses hear.

By E.VA.





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