Black Rose

One

The rain perforated endlessly, pounding on the rooftops and turning the sidewalks and roads into vast lakes of dull, muddy water. Dark gray clouds covered the sky, only letting a few rays of sun slip past the cotton like figures. The monotonous sound of raindrops beating on the sidewalk blended in with the occasional whoosh of the breeze through the treetops. My surroundings were bleak, gray, and dreary - even the atmosphere. Below me were civilians dressed in thick heavy coats, their feet adorned in rain boots and bearing large umbrellas over their heads as they walked with purpose, not daring to stop to look at anything or anyone.

The annoying sound of the massive church clock repeatedly penetrated my ears as the tall, marble doors flew open and church goers came fleeing down the stairs like a herd of sheep on a wild chase by mountain lions. Every individual wore a fabric of black clothing, giving me the assumption that a funeral had taken place moments ago. Not caring to find out I closed my satin black curtains and went into my conjoined bathroom to halt the overflow of my bath water. Stripping out of my black sheer lingerie, I watched as it pooled around my feet. With caution, I stepped in the tub, hissing at the feel of the immensely scorching water. The more I sat down, the fluffy cloud-like bubbles overruled my body, covering every inch of my bare skin. On instinct, I closed my eyes and my head fell back onto the tub as the familiar peaceful wave washed over me. Aside from my gallery, the bathroom has always been where I can relax, an oasis of calm and contemplation. A soft knock on the door is the closest thing to an interruption, which I barely get since I live alone and a soft quietness is maintained.

My bathroom is a chamber where I take consolation in silence and retreat from the stresses of life. After a long day of hell on earth, I make a beeline here to reflect on the present, past and future. Although, it's a temporary feeling, it's one of the things that helps me get out of bed the next morning. As weird as it sounds, it's true. Life is supposed to be the greatest blessing one will ever receive, but it hasn't been a blessing for me in years. A curse would be a better term. Every morning I wake up, I'm disappointed and ask God what does he see in me that keeps Him giving me chance after chance on this hell hole. There isn't anything or anyone left here for me. I hate every little detail about this place and hate is a strong word, but that's how I feel. My mom told me that hate colors the soul. Once it's embedded in your brain, it casually spreads throughout the entire body, shutting down all other feelings, and becoming central to the life and the intent of the person it's within. Hatred becomes a sickness of the mind, and of the heart and where it has claimed its possession, there is no room left for love or any other feelings. If left untreated, hate can completely poison the soul. My soul has been poisoned for years now and there is no remedy to cure me of it. Which is why I now go by Melrose, my middle name. It's not the ideal name I want people to call me but it's a hell of a lot fitting than Suri.

Suri is my first name, given to me by my grandmother and it means red rose. If you didn't know, the colors of roses hold a variety of meanings behind them. A red rose is an unmistakable expression of love. They convey deep emotions - be it, love, longing or desire. Red Roses can also be used to convey respect, admiration or devotion. My grandmother told me the moment she laid eyes on me I filled her heart with an endless love like no other. She said I could make no mistakes in her eyes and if I did, she'd love me no less. Sadly, love didn't live in my world anymore and she didn't live to see the abundance of mistakes I've made due to the vicious disease of AIDS snatching her out of my arms. I wanted nothing more than to live up to her words, but I failed her and I don't deserve to be her red rose. Suri isn't my name. I only care to be recognized as Melrose Willoughby.

Opening my eyes, I stared down at my prune hands and feet. I hadn't realized I'd been sitting here for over an hour. With my wash rag, I tried so hard to wash my sorrows and depressing thoughts off in hopes they'd go down the drain. Pulling the plug, I stood to my feet, hurriedly wrapping my goose bumps covered body with the plush black towel. Walking back into my dark colored room, I dried myself off before putting on my chosen outfit for the day. I worked from inside of my loft most of the time, so I could dress the way I wanted, but I always put effort into my appearance when I knew customers were stopping by. Being a painter with loyal customers definitely had its perks. I have the option of working on my own time, the amount of money I receive for my drawings beats any nine to five job and the best part of it all is I'm my own boss and I work alone. Clearly, I'm an introvert and prefer not to share oxygen with others. People, in general, makes my anxiety act up. Because of the rain and humidity outside, I chose to put my dark burgundy hair in a long french braid going down my back. Throwing a hat on top of my head, I rounded up the items I would need today and made my way out of the loft into the busy streets of Seattle. Today is the famous Art Walk Festival where rising artists like myself and well-known art business get together and support the city's art scene. It brings in thousands of tourists alone, not including Seattleites. Although it's a free festival, there are people who pay big money for a painting that catches the eye. The neighborhood art walk is how I gained over half of my regular customers. Unfortunately, I wouldn't be attending because my mood was down in the dumps and I've always worn my emotions on my sleeve, so it would be entirely noticeable that I don't want to be associating with anyone. Instead, I took the fifteen minutes drives to my Art Gallery that I started with the help of my mother. From the time I could pick up a writing utensil on my own, I've been infatuated with art-Abstract Art to be exact. Art to me is more than just splattering different colors on a canvas. It's a form of expressing your thoughts, feelings, and emotions that you can't explain verbally.