Poetry & Short Stories

© Not for your eyes. ©

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Here she is, in a rose garden, a desolate reality; rosary beads accompanying her lacey black ankle length dress. Her curly hair blowing with somber winds. Grabbing a white rose, a singular rose, she closes her palm around the sharp thorns allowing them to penetrate her milky skin.
She follows the unseen path back to her simple beginnings; a cottage on the edge of a cliff, looking as if it about to collapse- so much so the likelihood of it tumbling right down the hillside is merely inevitable. Taking a seat at a wicker chair she begins to write it out, she first states her name.
She follows the note with the very demons in which plague her soul, in habitating the vacancy of her lost innocence.
After she is done, she sets the pen aside, and neatly folds the letter, she places it the corner of her desk with the rose.
Taking a duster, she sweeps any remaining dust; returning it sufficiently. She takes the wicker chair in which she just sat, and pulls it toward the middle of the quaint homestead. She takes the pre-tied noose and fastens it to the cottage beam. Standing now, she puts the noose around her neck, adjusting it quarterly.
"Dear our finest lord, may this day not be stained by my blood; but with your finest wine. Long live your reign, long live our love. Let the river that runs red; red with blood; turn blue after this ultimate sign of repentance for the adultery in which I've committed against your ethereal being. May god be with me. Amen."
That's when she jumped. She didn't suffer long, luckily the noose broke her neck as she had previously planned. Her life hadn't gone as she scheduled, how she wanted things, how she needed things.
Ironic how it did this time...