Scent Of A Rose

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Flash Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
A story of less than 600 words written from an idea inspired by the picture.

Submitted: March 05, 2017

A A A | A A A

Submitted: March 05, 2017



Scent Of A Rose.


You hold it out towards me, a single blood-red rose. I look at it, I look into your eyes, then I let my eyes return to the flower once more. I hesitate. Should I take it knowing what I know? You look so earnest as you hold it out towards me but this act of yours, it’s not fooling me for one second. It looks nice, so I reach out my hand towards you, surprisingly steadily, and take the stem in my hand.


Thank you,” I say. I lift the rose towards my face and breathe in it’s scent. Floral, sickly, it reminds me of her.


Don’t give anything away, I silently admonish myself. If I was starting to frown I now relax my face. My emotions might be churning but you are not going to know it, not until I want you to. I know how to act, to create an impression, and going by the smile on your face I must be doing a good job of it now.


Of course, you are an exceedingly accomplished actor too. Just look at that expression on your face – absolute adoration aimed straight at me. But I know differently. I know where you were last night. I know who you were with. And it was not me!


It is hard to believe that you thought I would fall for that ‘working late’ excuse again. I have met your partner Jeff, and he does not look anything like the woman you were wining and dining, taking in to that hotel. You see, I was there, in the shadows, watching the two of you together. And do you know what? I did not care.


It smells beautiful,” I tell you, then reach my other hand up to pull a petal from the bloom. I crush it in my hand, squeeze it in my fist. More scent is released as I do this and I hold it out towards you. “Doesn’t it, Henry?”


I open my fist completely, turn my hand over and let that petal fall to the ground. Forcing myself to make and hold eye-contact, I begin to pluck the petals one by one and let them flutter to the ground. I do believe that you are beginning to understand, but you are not yet ready to give up on your game of pretence.


Almost all of the petals have gone now and are scattered around our feet. No pattern; no meaning, they just lay were they fell. The stem still remains in my hand, the thorns really obvious now the petals are not drawing the eye. Funny how the thorns are almost red at their tips. This one will be redder still as I let it dig into my flesh, draw out blood.


And yet,” I say, “they can also be so cruel.”


I swallow back the emotion that is threatening to break out. I hope you have not noticed. You have grown noticeably paler now so perhaps you are finally getting the picture. I force my mouth into a smile but my eyes remain cold on yours.


I never want to set eyes on you again.”


Before you have a chance to say a single word, I turn. Letting that single stem drop, I walk steadily away, feeling both relieved and betrayed when you make no move to follow me.

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