Blood falls softly from the rose. Light loses its intensity in the petals of white. Slow raindrops fall heavily on the closed eyes, as the clouds traverse the dark skies.

And in amongst the fleeing rain, a single tear falls. A single picture of sorrow, of love torn, of fear realized, of darkness forming.

The eyes open, shadowed by the light of darkness, they stare emotionlessly at the cruel world. Lost in thought of nothing, they captivate, steal, frighten.

They turn slowly to look at the purest white rose, only just formed from a bud. And in the eyes, there is a flicker of recognition.

There enters their blue depths a bitter irony, and the stormy depths are covered by the tired eyelids for but a moment.

Then they startle open again, and in them is almost an animal ferocity, a madness hovering over them, a rage smoldering deep within, and a weary hand hastened by emotion, reaches for the rose.

Ignoring the sharp thorns that tear the flesh like knives, it snaps the stem from the bush. The only flower of a solitary bush, it rests now in the bleeding hands.

And blood falls softly from the rose. Then, as one hand holds the harsh stem, the other slides toward the cold beauty of that perfect rose.

Not caring that the thorns snap off into the palm, it finally reaches the pure petals.

Engulfing the bud, it crushes it till nothing is left but dark crimson blood on scented petals.

The eyes calm, to be once more an emotionless stormy blue, and the rose falls softly to the blood.