In Death's Arms, I Wait For You

Red Rose

The cool evening air lifted wisps of russet colored hair, the strands dancing in the gentle wind before settling once again among its sistren. Cheryl tucked an errant lock behind her ear as she continued along the stone walkway of the garden path, relishing in the pleasant fragrance of the newly planted rose bushes that lined the edges of the pathway. Despite the darkening sky, the rich, red hue of the hybrid tea roses stood stark against the lush green of the bush leaves.

Cheryl felt a new appreciation for tranquil moments like these. Days had passed and though she was slowly becoming accustomed to her new way of life, she found it difficult to adjust to this particular immersion. All her previous facades had been mere costume changes, simply donning the appropriate fashions to fit the changing decades.

But as a highschool student she was bound to a rigid schedule. Each weekday she arrived at the doors of Riverdale High just before first bell, and for the next seven hours she was forbidden to leave. Most lectures were colourless, save for English Literature, and it seemed that she and her peers were united in mutual apathy; their animation only returning during the brief reprieves between classes and the lunch hour.

After the first week of spending long hours surrounded by others, the weekend found Cheryl seeking solitude within the walls of her manor. In hindsight, it wasn't so difficult to comprehend the delay in her acclimation. For the past sixty years, she had travelled much of Europe with only herself as a companion. Quiet and reflection had become the ordinary and for some foolish reason she had thought it a fine idea to throw herself headlong into forced interactions.

The vampire hadn't felt as taxed after the second week but she still found herself alone, among her garden flowers on a Saturday evening. She reached out a hand, letting slender fingers graze gently against vibrant, healthy leaves and dipping them in between parting petals as she continued her way along the stone path. Only pausing at roses that were in full bloom, she rubbed the petals between the pads of her thumb and forefinger, momentarily fascinated by their smooth almost leathery texture.

She had grown up with Thornhill's gardens boasting an assortment of fragrant flowers. Roses, lilacs, hydrangeas, along with an abundance of others, had welcomed visitors as their horse drawn carriages pulled across the small bridge that allowed passage over a gurgling stream. Pride was not a foreign emotion for the Blossoms, but mother had been especially prideful of her gardens. With caretakers and various persons of help walking the wings of the manor, Penelope Blossom tended to her flowers more than she did her children.

Yet, at the tender age of five, Cheryl was already well versed in the art of floral arrangement. Mother had turned her nose up at the mere thought of the help touching her prized possessions. With a sneer on her face she had announced that "weathered and calloused hands were more suited to cleaning lavatories and childrearing than something as delicate as the caretaking of flowers."

On occasion the Blossom matriarch, her nana, would join them outdoors. A young Cheryl would always feel lighter in the presence of her nana, thankful for not being alone under her mother's scrutinization. Though the elderly, white-haired woman would sometimes frighten the twins with her appearance, especially her cataract ridden left eye, they were quick to giggle at her often irreverent manner.

During one such visit, while she picked flower after flower with the little shears she had been entrusted with, careful to "always cut the stem at an angle,'' Nana Rose told her of the significance the rose had on the Blossom name.

"Just like my given name is Roseanne, the Blossom crest has roses twined around its edges for a reason, my dear child," she began, opening her arms and urging her to come forward into her lap.