The Rose

A rose amongst the many white and black blurs, she walked. Burgundy layers were clasped to her bodice of lace and her lips were painted to match. She walked and smiled, and walked and smiled. But then she saw how old, cracked, yellow . . . terribly cruel . . . he looked.

And upon seeing that face, she fled. She fled and fled and fled, and her eyes bled black. She tripped and stumbled upon the petals that were once luscious and full, but now were ripped and ragged. There were gasps and sighs, but still she fled into the open rain, and she let it fall on her. She paid it no mind; it was her friend, her only friend.

She finally stopped at a withered tree—which was all alone in the middle of a meadow—and placed one hand on the knotted bark and the other on her knee so as to catch her breath.

The heavy boughs of the tree lightened the fall of the rain, creating a mist that gathered upon her petals and dampened her already-wavy hair.

Tree, she coughed, please do not fall. Please do not fall. The rain has already fallen. You would only add to the disease. She murmured it over and over and still, over again, shaking her head. And only when ran had stopped and the sun had peaked over the horizon did she decide that the tree would not fall.

Thank you. She straightened out her body, weary from the night’s stay at the lonely tree. She smoothed and picked at the folds of her once beautiful rose, and smiled. And she ran back to where she had come from, and this time when she saw him, he was as beautiful as the first time she had seen him.

The disease had fled.