I like to stand up and walk through the roses quite often. Across the street is always a little girl, shaking and quivering. Very rarely does she catch my eye, but when she does she reminds me of everything that I've done. Everything that I ignore.
When I smile she disappears and I can pretend she isn't there until the next fateful moment when I turn my head once more. These days I look at her much more and wonder if maybe I should help her before it's too late. Yet I always remind myself, for now? It's fine. For now, I don't need to worry. She only appears sometimes anyway.
The other day our eyes locked and I couldn't bring myself to smile her away. Around me the roses wilted and the one I carried in my hand stuck me with thorns. I would not let go of him.
Her gaze was horrid, empty eyes surrounded by sunken in skin. When she spoke, only malice filled her words. The thorns of my favorite rose dug deeper into my hand, ignoring every plea and cry for help over the shouting of the girl across the street. I gave a shriek of laughter, and she disappeared, I looked away.
Around me the roses were wilted and I cried as I tried to get to the rose in my hand, to tell it to listen to me, to stop hurting me. I fell asleep in the roses, and when I woke up, the thorns had retracted, and I'd been carried away where the roses no longer wilted. Behind me I still saw the patch that had died. I still saw a bit of blood there on the ground. A bit of myself, lost to a girl with no feeling, and no mercy.
That girl looked like me.
