Casual Collection of Oneshots

Painting the Roses Red

Calmly cauterizing the ends of some white roses, I try to block out the noise from the park across the street. The shop stays unchanged since yesterday, with the whitewashed walls still coated in the memories of a place once overwhelmed by different shades, shapes and scents. This place is rundown, but I can't bear the thought of selling it; what if Flora can't reach me once she's back to get me?

I continue with mundane tasks, allowing the ballroom of my mind to be left to its own devices. No customers today, granting me the permission to bask in me-time. Silent solitude is a gift. 

The obnoxious clock radio speaks up again, reminding me of how much I hate that I can't switch the hourly news broadcast off. The sun will set soon, so I get comfortable on the shaky stool, awaiting the cherry skies that accompany the moon's arrival while drawing. The wind whistles into the window, carrying smells of sweets and smoke. The last of the youngsters rush out the park on roller-skates, cigarettes and lollipops between their lips. 

Darkness covers the village briskly, leaving just the glowing crescent up above. With a pen in my mouth, puffing on it, I look at the finished sketch of the pretty white roses in their prime, focusing on their youthful nature. I poured purity onto a piece of paper, hoping it'll last longer than my innocence did. I can't differentiate between the fumes in the air and my mind fog anymore; I love it.

Velvety voices start dancing in the ballroom, teasing me. I ruffle my hair, attempting to distract myself. What a futile attempt. I feel her fingers fumbling with my shawl, and her eyelashes bat against my flushed face. The pen drops to the ground, and I'm taken back. Shivering as I get up, I head toward the window, attempting to snap myself out of it. Recomposing myself isn't something I've ever struggled with, a brief look at the serene sight on the other side is all I need.

Standing in disbelief, I stare ahead at the shady silhouette lurking in front of the park. Inadvertently, I look at whatever it is more closely, and let go of all rationality. There's a hooded figure in black pointing at me, taunting me. Heat spreading from my heart to the rest of my body, hope gets unleashed within me. With an intrigue far too developed, I lock my gaze. Instead of composure, I have Flora's familiar floral taste finding its way back to my mouth, reminding me of our naive nights. The silhouette becomes clearer as it approaches, but still remains too ambiguous for me to recognize, making me go crazy.

Unable to find her, I start swinging, my head hitting the dangling lightbulbs in the process. Glass shatters then cuts through my pale skin, leaving me bleeding and lonely again. She left me so abruptly, so brutally, with sirens and flashing lights too late to save her. I would have given anything, everything. I fall to the floor, drowning my happiness in truth and shirt in blood.

"Please! Open the door, it's me! Let me in," the person screams.

The banging, begging and pleading gets louder. Every breath I'm taking makes a crackle reminiscent of the sound sparks at a campfire make. She came back for me. Excited embers in me reignite an old flame, forcing my body to do what it takes to reach her. Tingles crawling from the tip of my fingers to the bottom of my spine, I open the door.

Glancing down, I notice scarlet stains also forming on the white carpet, and I spot my pen. Wanting to create another cloud to get lost in, I pick it up and take a long drag. I pass it on to Flora and she grabs it. Winking cheekily, she brings it to her intoxicatingly shiny lips and inhales. I try to ignore the temptation as I take in her appearance; even death couldn't corrupt her beauty, despite its cheap attempt in clothing her with its dullness. Both releasing at the same time, we create glorious gloom. Amidst the haze, her face closes in on mine, and before our lips could meet, she whispers, "Why don't you sell my favorite flowers anymore? Not a great welcome is it?"

Set to prove her wrong, I wobble to my desk, grabbing the sketch and sitting on the stool. Focusing on the lines and shadows, I hesitate. Reading me, Flora gets near and slips a hand in my hair, with the other sliding underneath my shawl to rub my neck.

"It's pretty, but it's not complete yet, right? How unfortunate the lack of color in your reference is," she says, while reaching out to pick a rose.

Unsure of how to respond, I simply nod in agreement.

She shoots me a small smirk, then demands, "Color them red. Show me how you do it."

Sitting still, hypnotized, my fingers trace the edges of the wound, whirling and twirling before plunging. Then, lazily bringing my hand to the sheet of paper, I paint. Strokes of warmth tainting the roses, making them complete. Marks of life, smears of love. Pride pulling my weak frame up, I stand and hold the sketch up against my drenched chest. The once blank flower in her hand had now also become red. Finally daring to again after so long, I direct my eyes to hers. Diving deep in her blinding blue, I ride the ride, hitting the ground hard. I've been waiting for you too long. Flora, I'm finally joining you. 

"8 AM RADIO NEWS! Local teens on their way to the park reported a shocking finding to the authorities earlier this morning. The friend that took over after Flora's fatal accident was found in her store on the floor showing signs of having bled to death. A laced e-cig, bloodied drawing, and multiple shards of glass have been recovered. Sirens and red lights are unusual but please cooperate with the police. Aside from that, we hope you have a good day and we'll keep you updated."