Three Roses
The silence woke her as she waited on the bumpy, ragged couch under clouds of marijuana, watching absentmindedly as they floated above her. Her bony, icy hands gripped a glass filled with an unfamiliar purple liquid. She had waited for hours on end for the raging house to dim and for the drunken slurs to fade out the door, leaving nothing, but footprints of broken glass.
At 3:33am, the lights dimmed and the voices faded. Within her soul, arose a life, transforming her weary face and bony body to ones of a porcelain doll. Her eyes grew wide to those of a doe, like a baby, and her skin was smooth, pale to perfection, and her once chapped purple lips were luscious, painted a bloody red, ones of a bloody rose.
Gently she lifted her glass to her mouth and tipped it down her throat letting the strange purple liquid fall into her mouth, flowing down her dry throat and some of it fall down her lips and drip down her chin, staining her snowy white dress. Like an artist, she painted as she drank her poison. Pulling the cup from her lips, she wiped her mouth. She was preparing to come out in the light of day. Her poison gave her sanity. She dropped the glass and watched it shatter on the ebony marble floor, just like everyone she once knew. It was the sick twisted fate of all those she loved.
Quietly with her long, pearly white dress trailing behind her, she walked through the glass as shards pierced the sole of her feet, staining the ends of her dress a crimson red.
Not too long later, she reached the end of the creaky, eerie hall, did she reach a door with a single rose turning a dirty brown hanging limply on the knob, making her reminisce her fallen lover. Twisting the knob, the rose fell at her feet and the wooden door opened, granting her access. Within the four walls, of this room stood a wooden table covered in splinters and a creaky, rusted metal chair with a dusty pink cushion resting on it. Pulling the cushion off the chair, she sat on the squeaky chair, reaching for an ancient notebook, filled with recipes of breaking a soul, and a fragile black pen. Flipping to a blank page she wrote her story to the world shakily. As she gripped her pen, her head started to pound. Her grip tightened. She wrote faster. Her pen scraped the paper.... till everything snapped. The frantic writing ceased with the loud crack of her pen. The black ink splattered onto her already stained dress.
With a shriek, in frantic agony, she rushed out of the broken room, down the haunted halls. tumbling down the rickety stairs and out of the wretched house, only to fall into the cutting rose bushes. They cut her once untainted skin, sure to create scars. Eventually, she picked up the broken porcelain pieces and glued them together with the slater water that fell. Then with the rose petals, she painted her lips once more and stapled her mouth in a permanent smile with the thorns that grew the delicate, fragile flower. For she’d been told, this smile would please the entire world.
Hand and knees, till heels and stilettos. Her once pearly white dress stained with three colours: purple, red and black, filling the blank canvas. To the world a mysterious combination of royalty, romance and power. But in reality, at 3:33am, 3 roses, decorated like a bloody rose upon her lips, a rose hanging on the doorknob from her fallen lover and a cutting rose securing her pain, with her pearly white dress painted purple black and red. For without their knowledge, these 3 roses from struggle, danger and darkness, broke her soul. She fought the battles of every person. Through agony, troubles and pain, all goes unnoticed. Not a soul realises, but every soul praises the final product, a mixture of colours over another broken soul. 3 roses broke it all, but 3 roses won their cold and broken hearts.


















