Puppeteer (Old)

My Garden Roses Burn To Ash

It was a Tuesday. I dare not call it a nightmare, because I know better than to write things off as fake. But the day my lovely namesake burnt to flames, my heart was scorched as well, the same color as the embers. Red.

"Lolita! Hey, kitty." I leap down the steps to greet my cat, fresh from her adventure in the garden. I kneel to pluck a burr from her chest, and she growls in complaint. "Hush," I scold. "You care when it's on you but hate it when I take them off. Poor contrary kitty." I soften a bit as Lolita demands food by sweetening up to me. I am the same way as her, so much so it's almost like we are one and the same. Contradictory and manipulative. Though, it isn't my fault if I hate having to dog up to everyone. 

I almost stand, but stop in a crouching position. I smell smoke. Sweet, like incense. How odd, I think, and my immense curiosity takes hold with a life of it's own. I rush out the back door to follow the wafting aroma of destruction. I know very well I am to be either disappointed or distraught by what is to come, but I cannot stop myself. My nature is what I am proud of, and if I turn my back on who I am, like last-

"My roses!" I screech, and I cringe at my annoyingly wrung out voice. Fire, ash, embers...everywhere. The side yard's grass is browning, the petals of my bushes in full bloom are curling, the morning dew evaporating, even the sunlight itself seems to bend to the will of the flames before me. I almost can't take the memory that hurls itself at me and blurs my vision, but I made my psyche strong through these wretched lonely years, and I force myself not to feel a thing. The lovely, beautiful roses, though, they were not so lucky. 

My mind runs through the possibilities. Not a prank. Why did they burn? Plants have moisture, so the fire would not reach this intensity. I can feel the heat, can sense the terrible glow on my irises. Rose. I am Rose. But the red of the petals on my flowers was never this cold and relentless. 

I don't bother to shut the door wall on my way back inside. Life giving water, I call to you to douse my roses' suffering, I think, commanding the liquid from the tap to follow me outside. In a current of crystal, the water hurls itself from the faucet without me ever needing to turn it on. My powers are getting stronger, but that isn't important. I can't stand to see another thing perish. 

Rivulets of liquid curl themselves around my limbs like a faithful pet as I prepare to send it forth to vanquish the flames. The pits of my soul resonate with my movements, reminding me of my iron-fisted control over this force of nature. I'm still practicing in secret, but soon I'll be strong enough to steal the rain from the sky and douse every red tongue of fire in the land. This thought alone is enough to send my ropes of water to the present catastrophe. 

Steam furls up as the two elements collide, and a satisfying hiss confirms that the flames are indeed gone. 

And all that's left is a pile of ashes.