The rose . . .the only rose she'd ever received . . . She looked at its sanguine petals in a sad, wistful fashion, not wanting to let go of the moment, but not wanting to keep the pain. This rose meant so much to her. The memories that flooded back with just a glance towards it made her want to scream. As she looked at the flower the memories came back, the dam of her mind, the seal of her thoughts, the only scab that stemmed the flow of reminiscent blood; was broken, never to be repaired. Her mind screamed in agony, her head felt as though it would burst, along with her heart, and send her into spiraling nightmares of torturous emotion. Red swam into her eyes and had she stopped to dry her tears, she would no doubt have noticed that they were in fact drops of blood raining down on her eternally darkened soul. Ah, the soul, the soul, my friends; that was what truly spilt blood; what threatened to burst, to tear itself mercilessly into halves and fly apart in a million jagged, double-edged pieces. And as she examined this, she noticed her soul leaving her . . .taking flight . . . passing through her physical body and her unconscious one . . . It came as a faint whisper from her slightly parted lips . . . and it faded . . . faded to the nothingness that its former master now was. And as the soul vanished to less than vapor, the rose fell to the ground, and she fell to her knees, blood streaming down her stark white cheeks. She fell to the ground, her eyes now voids of pure darkness: blank and empty. Following her soul was her breath . . . out her body it went. And she lay there, knowing what was to come; what was happening even then; her soft, pale fingertips still brushing up against the fallen rose . . . perhaps for comfort . . .