A wild rose grows in a garden. Its vines twist and turn; growing into more than just one rose. It weaves its way around the other flowers, clinging to the fence. Thorns grow sharp and prick the gardener’s finger as he tries to pull the roses out of his precious garden. He gasps in surprise and pulls his glove off. His eyes narrow as he throws his glove down in anger. “Tomorrow.” He vows as he walked away.

A wild rose dies in a garden. Its vines are now brittle and breaking apart. The petals fall to the ground and each rose that had multiplied, is now dead. The gardener grimaces as a rose worm has found it’s way into one of the roses. The dead flowers are tossed in a piled that is set to burn. The gardener smiles in satisfaction as she stows his pesticide in his shed. His vegetable garden is now safe.

A wild rose withers in a vase of water. It sits on a windowsill that overlooks the garden. Next to the vase is a small girl. She sits and stares out of the window, wishing that the roses would grow back. She hears the thumping of footsteps coming up the stairs and scrambles back into bed. “It’s time to eat.” He says as he lays a tray of oatmeal on her lap. He watches as she takes a bite, her face scrunched up, as she tastes it. He smiles again in satisfaction as he watches her eat, hiding that bottle of rat poison behind his back.