The White Rose [Complete]

White Rose

Withering, breath slowing, white rose dying away in the stench of grief, thorns prickling tissue, blood rushing out of the ragged scars. Scars leading a trail on her wrinkly skin, skin that displayed the essence of her ages, her youth a non existent speck in the universe. Her eyes were hollow, having shed all the tears she regretted, all the tears she despised, her eyes were grey and streaked with dust and blood and death. The man cried, slowly tearing himself apart, even as he promised himself not to, letting go of the hopes he held. His darling, his rose , lying in her own petals , the man let his hands go limp, his memories fade out into emptiness-

"Wake up!" Mrs. White screams tumultuously, shaking at her husbands shoulders, attempting at waking the deep sleeper. Mr. White shoots up, clenching his fists as he guards himself from nothing, fearing the sharp touch of thorns to dig into him, they don't.

This is his fantasy.

He waits, panting discreetly as he tries to get his breath, for his wife to paw all over him, worry about his distressed mind, she doesn't.  Instead, she lifts herself off the bed with a frown she just recently starts to plaster onto her face, words are quiet, and once again he is convinced that it is his fault their relationship has taken such a turn in fate.

This is his fault.

That Mrs. White blatantly curses at her husband for his incompetence, that she sees their marriage in vain. Twenty five years of happiness, and in one week all those years are turned to nothingness. Mr. White is oblivious, sometimes, his wife will go out when he is at work,

she will drink heavily,

and act indecently towards other men,

and she will come home and regret,

slicing through her skin to get rid of the guilt.

There is not much left for her to live for, the dresses and bouquets Mr. White gifts her with, are not enough, the romantic outings or evening dinners, are not enough. Herself has fallen into hell fire, where she is at peace, in terror, in fear, that she will never see her son again.

She remembers the times when she cradled him in her womb, gripping his tiny hands as he attempted at walking, when he learnt how to ride a bike, when he finished his first years at school, when he graduated into University, when he got his first job. All those times, Mrs. White would stand by and clap for him, congratulate him and disciplining him for his behavior, all times, she fell for her son more. His acts were endearing;  his smile captivating; his laugh intoxicating

...she loved him.

Mr . White dresses into his work clothes, hurrying to follow his wife down into the parlor. Words should be uttered, but not. Actions should be taken out, but not,

this is what Mr. White wakes up to every morning.

He wants to be showered in kisses, he wants to taste the smooth handmade coffee. Instead he receives the everlasting silence along with stale bread and milk.

"Farewell." Says Mrs. White monotonously, handing her husband his Tupperware lunchbox, Mr. White goes to grab his coat
himself,

he doesn't expect it off the old woman, nor does he expect her to wear it to him

with fondness. Like a real wife should-

times have changed.

All is quiet in the house, when the man leaves with all the dignity he has left. The silence us blistering, sending quiet waves of emotion throughout the house, the floor boards creak, the doors hanging off its hinges , this is the power of silence. Screams are piercing land, yet no one can hear,
this is the woman who finally grants her own freedom. Following an everyday routine, Mrs. White returns to the kitchen, trashing all the cupboards as she cleans the mess, there is none. She enters the parlor, the furniture is coated in memories, and she hates it. All she sees is herself crying on that rusty chair, she falls on it, emptying herself of empty, rejuvenating herself of youth. The furniture feels oddly intimidated, their owner glares at them, they have committed a terrible sin, and they cannot redeem themselves of such. They exist, but do not want to,

like Mrs. White.

Mr. White does not go to work, he takes the infernal thing in his hand, and this is the end of its existence.
It glows, dark like dwarf stars, an unfathomable light that outlines its evil-like aura,

doom

filled with potential.

A small cub is growing in the distance, suffering its parents sins, it ages with itself, and no one supports it in its adolescence.

This is nature.

Tawny; ripe; extinguished; a spark that has yet to be ignited.

This is prospective.

Now it is roaring, devouring enemies, retaliation at first.  Reprisal after. The ghastly article is thrown as food for the immortal beast, it does not diminish. Frozen it is, the creature is in awe, his food does not thaw, why so?

Frustration seeps the man, eyes bulging, bloodshot and melancholy, he takes risks with hope, he receives what he doesn't want. This is his miserable existence. 

All because of potential,

he loses

against life, one - nil.

This is the Monkey's Paw, do not question its unseen power.

Though it would not have been this way if Mr. White had, repentance is what he feels. When he returns home at the respectable time, the birds are still, tweeting like they should, they are not? The trees should be rustling with the breezy breeze of dusk, they are not?  Nature is abnormal, but today?

Today, everything

is like abnormal shouldn't be.

Normal. 

Entering the house, he expects his wife to be sleeping fitfully in their chamber, where he keeps her safe at night - when really it isn't all he thinks it is. On those sheets, are stains , dripping black and red, it should be paint marks of joy-

Instead it is indelible ink marks of misery. Really, it is just his wife's soul eluding itself from grief, of course. Grievous grief,  there is  never an escape, of course.

In the chamber, on those sheets, is a white rose. Silver, glinting in the light; sharp; honest, it slices through pale skin, scarred tissue with no thought at all, scarlet hot liquid blazes out, accenting the dark beauty which is her soul. There is no sorrow-ridden, ancient woman in sight.

Instead there is only that rose , on that bed, on that floor, everywhere he is showering in petals. Petals planted on the ground, a coating of dust layers them. There is thorns, deep, urging to pierce all.

Tears fall, his memories are fading out into emptiness, and he feels this darkness over him, it is only right to let himself go after so long. All those tears he despises, are finally falling , he thanks the universe, he curses the universes, why is there a cloud raining over him, why is he turning to stone, why are those roses hurting him?

There are thorns prickling him, there is blood seeping out of him, the years, slipping away to a puddle on the floor, there is screaming. Now he knows where it is coming from,
his mouth

his soul. He is entering infinitesimal slumber, there is no princess to come kiss him awake.

Now he knows, The White rose, is The Paw, silent and enduring, perfect and dangerous,  inexplicable and hated, an omen. Now he knows, beyond The Rose, beyond The Paw, was everything abnormal, was demise.

The Paw, The Rose.

The Rose, The Paw.