The Rose That withered

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic

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A beautiful Rose suffers neglect to learn powerful lesson about nature.

This is about a person....
 
From the state of a seed she was both tortured and nurtured 
Buried alive not yet aware it was the best thing for her
She felt but could not yet see the elements of her growth until the day she sprouted into the atmosphere of her circumstances.
 
She remembered the day she surfaced from the mud. The first time she consciously heard what she believed to be her name, ‘Beautiful’. She heard it said so many times before she had no need to think otherwise but wasn’t mature enough to understand what it meant to others. 
 
‘ I’m beautiful?’ She would ask herself as the riverbed glistened with the image of her reflection uncertain of herself as the sun gazed at her in awe.
She was a young flower who loved the sun more than anything in the world. The sun was always there to warm her it raised her from a seed. Her petals would flap at the sensation of its touch as the sun sent her rays of peace when the rain stopped. 
 
Now the rain wasn’t as fond nor as bond to the rose as the sun seemed to be.
The rose didn’t like the rain but was told by the sun she needed rain to live. 
 
“Why doesn’t rain like me” the rose asked the sun in budding curiosity.
 
The sun reassured her that rain was just as there for her as he was and that they worked together to help her blossom. At times The sun felt rain had the tendency to brew small storms unnecessarily but couldn’t ignore the way their natures complimented each other for roses sake. But In the opinion of the rose rain didn’t have to fall so harshly on her.
 
Because The rose was planted on the edge of the riverbed as the waters would flow the creatures that dwelled within would swim near to view in her nightly beauty. They would take deep breaths above the water to admire the rose up close as she rested, her red coat glowing in the nestle of its own vine, reflecting along with the moon and the stars off of the face of the water.
 
One day the sun rose and rain began to precipitate trying its hardest to block out the sun. The sky found itself having difficulty staying neutral during their dispute as it took both sides. 
The Rose woke and opened its pistil anticipating the rays of the sun would warm it from the inside out but was awakened by the chill of a wind that was not unfamiliar.
 
A storm was beginning to brew.
 
 In a thunderous rage lightning began to strike at a distance. The clouds began to cloak the sky in darkness.  Thunder became a trauma for the rose as she began to quiver in shock unbeknownst that rains tantrum would soon become ritual abuse. 
 
As rain drove the sun from the sight of the sky it smiled at rose as it’s light was dimmed and eventually swallowed by a gang of clouds. As the last ray of light began to thin and was abducted up into the darkness of the sky, rain began to purposely over water the grounds of the rose causing her roots to loosen from their foundation. 
 
The rose retracted it’s petals as to jacket herself from rain but to no avail. The rose’s only form of defense was to conceal its beauty, which, not only seemed to feed the will of the rain whose nature transfigured to that of a storm, but forcefully caused the rose to starve itself of its own purpose. Now naturally beauty is often hidden and it is rarely ignored yet just as so, the rose could not ignore the pain it suffered unable to be itself. Unable To be beautiful as the sun raised her to be.
 
The wind became a whirl and attempted to tumble the vine upon which she was connected. The soil became so damp the worms unearthed and swiveled to dodge the raindrops as if they were missile’s. The foundation was burrowed by ants who trooped hastily out of the taverns of their now muddy abode as the storm drowned the dirt as if to get the roots to come up for air.
 
A strong gust hit the bush of the rose. The vines flapped and shook violently as the rose felt the brush of a thorn glide against its coat causing a small tear in one of its petals. The rose opened up in reaction to its injury unintentionally giving the wind chance to whistle through the rip in its petal, which eventually split apart.
 
The storm, satisfied by the damage it was able to cause the rose, began to settle down. The clouds that hovered remained dark as they wrung out the last of their rain drops.
 
The rose, drenched in condensation, cried unable to tell the difference between the tears falling from her face and the residue of rain that slid and dripped off her petals. 
 
She dangled loosely from her vine injured by the very elements that were responsible for her life. The sun had abandoned her, the rain abused her, the garden she was planted in, ruined.
 
The waters on the crevice of Roses plant bed still echoed from the touch of the rain. Rose stared into the mirror of the water waiting for it to clear that she may see the result of herself after bracing the wrath of the storm that had just passed.
 
Eventually the final drops of rain counted themselves down to a stop. The winds blew less until a steady pause came upon the waters of the river.  The rose was cold and the sun had yet to return. The rose, hanging on a limb of its vine, was swayed by a sensitive breeze aware it would drop if the rain decided to gang its fellow elements and conjure another storm. 
 
The rose focused on the water and tried to make out the image of its reflection even tho it was already quite sure that she looked as bad as she felt.
 
The first thing she seemed to notice was that her color was faded. It was as if the rain cracked away at the paint of her coat and the wind swept it from the canvass of her petals.
All of the pulses that activated her glow were numbed.
 
Another breeze nudged her as she shivered in reaction. She felt more naked, more exposed for some reason. That’s when she remembered what all the things on her mind caused her to forget.
 
One of her petals was torn. Rose faced her reflection unable to face the reality of what she had become. And almost instantaneously It occurred to her it wasn’t so much what she had become but what she had been turned into.
 
She never asked for it nor did she conceit herself because of it. She had been vandalized for no reason she could seem to figure. 
 
Days went by as her mind did. The storms became regular in between which, the creatures of the riverbed would still visit in occasion until they seen her condition and lost interest. Yet somehow the rose remained attatched to her vine.
 
After every storm she’d wait for the sun to reappear. But all she was able to see was her miserable reflection with the background of the clouds behind her. There was a time when she enjoyed looking at herself as others did, reminiscing upon the days she would look and ask herself whether she saw what others saw, but now it suffered her sanity to do so. 
 
There was supposed to be beauty in the struggle but all the beauty left in the life of this rose was limited to the effort of her survival. 
 
The tip of her vine rotted and browned as the sickness of death began to infect her. The thunder rumbled which was a definite signal that rain was rejuvenating itself and that the rose should prepare itself to reenter the dirt from which it had rose.
 
As the volume of the thunder increased Rose began to feel suffocated by her mortality questioning whether she ever truly knew what life really was. 
 
The first rain drop touched the ground. 
 
The rose felt the stitching of the vine losing the strength to hold it. She said a prayer upon the vine and thanked it staying strong as long as it had. 
 
The Rose waited for the wind to arrive because it knew the rain would send for it to finish the job it had started.
 
The rose became frightened as the lightning harassed it 
Even more so by the acceptance of what she knew would soon happen. 
She wondered whether the wind would whirl her into a thorn 
To be bladed by the sharpness of rains hatred left unadorned 
would the vine lose its grip and let the dirt catch it corpse 
Or would it land in the river and drift with its course
 
There was no preference. The rose waited as the remainder of it’s petals began to shed from the stress of its condition. 
 
The storm increased in aggression and all the rose could think about was the sun. 
 
The wind bent the threads of the vine and the rose was finally detached. It fell straight to the ground with some of its last thoughts being why the sun had left. Where did he go?
 
Thoughts of him as the only comfort she ever knew served her well. Thoughts of the sun made her death seem less vain.
 
As the mud began to bury and stain the only petal left to identify what was left of her body. Beneath the labyrinth of vines that hosted her so highly above the ground was a plethora of red glowing bulbs that went without the wreckage this rose was forced to face. 
 
She lived long enough to see herself as what she believed to be the illusion of a pre death experience but was actually a thriving garden of her kin.
 
The buds of her rose were soaked shriveled and decayed but the petal that was sheltered by the layers of its coat still glew as brightly as those flowers that were planted below the surface who despite the suns absence were sustained by the sauna created from the moisture and heat of the ground. They had only caught filters of the light that shined through the cracks of the bushes and vines but never seen the sun in the fullness of it’s excellency.
 
But in the dying moments of this particular Rose it realized it’s nature was no different from the roses that escaped her fate. It was only her forecast that differed. Unique by circumstance at most but it was The plan that God planted within the nature of struggle itself that would blossom despite the personal agony of the seed he allowed to weather the storms it did and allowing it to whither in the beauty from which it was born...


Submitted: November 30, 2021

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