(A/N: I wrote this at night, during a sleepover that involved NO sleep… alright, I am insane. Deal with it. If you read, you review. No getting out of it. Or I'll bite you, roar! .)
Running and failing, my life was full of misery. I died a lonely young woman and my enemies smiled sweetly at my funeral. The roses wilted when they reached the door, and the crisp, red petals were reminiscent of the wondrous, and saving torture you put me through.
Do you remember the days when we were young? You were such a gentleman. You offered your hand and held my heart. Your eyes were breathtaking. How sweet you once were; with genuine love in your soul you would call to me. I wonder if you were the only one who loved me.
The rest of them did not even try to conceal their hate for me. Disappointment flickered in my mother's eyes, and my father never looked at me with fondness. Friends and love of family were a figment of a distant and distorted imagination. I felt dead to the love of the, and I know that they wished I was. They must be happy now.
You stood up for me. You held my heart with a tentative glance from your eyes. The eyes that could stop the sun from shining or the sky from raining. Sweet, loving, you were incredible. What went wrong?
Why did you turn on me as you did? Your eyes of honey turned to ice in one second. There was no warning, and then you were like the rest of them, hating my spirit. You tormented me, using my uncovered weaknesses against my shattered being. Did you suddenly see in me what all the others did? That one, unforgivable flaw that made them look away when they passed me on the street, or scorn me without mercy. Is that why you hated me? Is that why your loving soul turned to one of stone?
Was there a good enough reason to do what you did to me?
I would almost be angry with you. By the time you did it, I hated myself so greatly I believed that it was the only thing in this earth I deserved.
And I remember how it began.
It began with the roses.
Two thousand roses in my house when I came home from Church, came home from praying to God to end my misery in any way possible. They were wrapped in lacy black ribbons, in groups of thirteen. Each group had a small card on it signed by your name.
And the roses were dead.
Every one of them, no longer basking in the glory of their illustrious, crimson velvet petals. Wilted and browning, flies and ants swarmed about them as maggots ate their over-sweetened hips. The smell of them was overwhelming. I was stuck by the sickly sweet and decaying odor all around.
The lies were talking to me. They told me in whining voices that these roses were for me and that you were waiting in my bedroom. I nodded at the flies and my two thousand dead roses and stepped through the doorway.
The nosebleed began immediately. Me head ached. The blood came rushing out so fast it stained my new white blouse. I tried to cover it with my fingers. Blood ran over my hand and tears ran in my eyes, tinged with the red that was loose in my head. This was not supposed to happen. You were in the bedroom, and I did not know what to expect.
I let it run.
I walked dizzily into my room. More roses. Dozens more, hundreds more, thousands more. The stench and filth was overpowering enough. And there you were, on the bed, lying with a tender look in your eyes. It was the look that I had loved so often; the look you gave me before you hated me.
You told me that you loved me. You told me that all this was for me.
You called me to lie on the bed with you. Blood followed me everywhere I went, touched all I saw. You did not see my blood, and I did not know why.
You looked me in the eyes, and leaned in softly. You kissed me once.
And then you loved me.
Th sun that didn't exist was down when we came back to earth. Blood covered my sheets, my pillows, my floor. It soaked your chest and beard. The roses were browned, blackened, the thorns sharper than before.
I saw the thorns. They were on one rose. They were on all the roses. Miniature daggers surrounded us, thirty times thousands.
You saw the thorns. You looked at them with the same love you had before you had your way with me.
Slowly you got up from the bed. You took one rose from the windowsill, and held it sensuously in your hands as you made your way towards me. Sitting down on the bed you ran the black petals along my face, seducing and mocking me with sick intent lurking in your mind. You drew the rose down my neck and towards my left arm.
The expression on your face never changed as you quickly pulled the stem to my arm. The thorns caught and snagged at my skin. Small marks were left as you dragged the thorns all the way to my wrist. There, you gave me more sweet wounds.
As I saw the blood leaving my body, I lost consciousness for some time.
When I awoke I was racked with pain. My nosebleed stopped, as blood left my body in other places. I looked up at you and saw a new, intense look in your eyes.
My body was covered with them. Scratches. Cuts. Snags. Blood.
I think I expected it then.
You slipped something brilliant from beneath my pillow. The blade, sharp and long, a curved turquoise handle at the end. I was scared for a moment. I stroked your hand.
This was what I had prayed for.
You held the blade against my throat and held it there for a tentative moment, just long enough to let me understand why you were doing this to me, how you still and always have loved me, and how you wanted to release me from my constant pain...
You dragged the blade across my skin. The piercing feeling was a kiss sweeter than any I could have prepared for. My flesh separated after the soft metal. The blood poured, singing a silent song of crimson, violet and black, warm and seductive as it flowed from my body and poured down my throat... The smell was perfect and intense, and as the blood poured I felt as if I was bathing in it, purifying me before I took my final journey... And from the corner of my darkened vision, I saw you put your finger to my wound, and bring the blood to your lips with a saddened look on your face; you were drinking the last of my life...
Then I was gone, jolted from my body, and into a transparent universe that was ours and was not. the feelings of the past manifested themselves somewhere in the corner, buried under the wilted roses and maggot filled bloodclots and scabs. I could watch the rest of my nonexistence from the shadows, and I was never far from those I hated and the one that murdered me, my true love.