Beneath the Colored Roses

In a quiet townhouse, with houses of brown, grey and white at every turn; with cars of all kinds of sizes, colors and styles; and a few greens now and then, there was a two story home unlike the others. Around it grew, with such abundance, flowers blessed with exquisite names and beauty that most people are unaware of - Chrysanthemum, Delphinium, Gladiolus, Heather. And guarding the sanctuary of the thriving garden were rose bushes, all bearing white buds, at the edges. It flourished bordering the whole length of the rusty white gates, four turns reaching the plain and grassy backyard.

 

 

There was only a single paved road to walk to from the gate to the entrance door of the house. And nothing, but the garden, was special about this humble home. Every furniture was made with ordinary wood, lights hang the ceiling and lit the walls, and white translucent curtains hid away the shy windows. But nothing was too extravagant.

 

 

And there live, all alone, a woman named Connie.

 

 

She was a young woman of simple yet peculiar tastes; and of a meek, yet too bubbly attitude that almost no one can last for an hour or two. She was very religious and attended mass every Sunday, and she never forgot to offer a prayer at night.

 

 

Horrendous! Do I see her wearing another sleeveless white dress, only now she's wearing a green vest on top of it?! And the shoes! Who wears purple sandal shoes in that getup? Hah! She looks like a vegetable!

 

Barely audible whispers with such judgmental concern never fail to find their way every time Connie greets the neighborhood, and streets. And everyone assumed her maiden’s abode to be just as strange as the way she seems. But the lot couldn't be more wrong, for nothing inside her home, or room, was ever a mismatch.

 

 

Her room, relatively big in size for a single person, was painted with floral patterns of pink and cream. Stationed on the right side of her room, facing the round table placed at the very center, was a single-sized bed with white covers and bedside tables with gas lamps on each. On the left side were a big wardrobe positioned in the corner closest to the door; a tall book shelf crammed with old books, all hardbound and fresh with the smell of old, in the other end; and in between was a shiny dark brown dresser-closet with jewelry boxes, perfumes and lady essentials on top.

 

 

And situated parallel to the center table was Connie’s personal spot, her artist’s lounge - a simple desk with a matching wooden chair, stocked with a few books and clean white sheets of paper that were all neatly piled up, facing a bare window with a pale frame. And completing the set-up was a metal pencil holder, about the size and shape of a mug, with writing tools, brushes, a scissor and a cutter.

 

 

It was just a simple room with a refined and homely taste.

 

 

But her room wasn't quite the same as usual, and nor was her garden. Every single space on the floor was covered with white roses, and such strong scent seeped through every door and window in her home. Her once flourishing borders of fine roses were now bald and just plain green.

 

 

“Such a lovely day,” she said quietly, sighing as she sat on her desk chair and stared out at the single glass window that overlooked the garden. Sunshine crossed over and bathe her face, and short straight black hair, with a luminous glow. Her cheeks were blushed with a fine pink shade and her eyes, brown and almond in shape, were more alive than ever.

 

 

As she stood and stretched her arms, she excitedly proclaimed “I should get started!” And as she said so, she looked down and smirked at the inanimate object.

 

Beside her chair, inferiorly located, was a wooden bucket full of red paint. It was a very dark variant of red, appealing and vibrant, intoxicating to the naked eyes.

 

 

Holding a small Chinese brush on her right hand, she took the first dip; and with her left, she held a single white rose.

 

Gently closing the distance of her left hand and face, she passionately gazed at the flower and began to spread the paint. She did so carefully, as if to not wake the unsuspecting sleeping beauty with the kiss of her soft brush. Bit by bit, she invaded the white with red. Bit by bit, her strokes brought such vibrant and lustful color.

 

 

Ah, her eyes glimmered and her mouth pulled into a dazzling, sunny smile. Now, in her hand, was a red rose.

 

 

“How I love it!” she exclaimed. “I love it, I love it!”

 

 

With this, her hands began to operate once more with such a fluid and precise motion. And so, a second red rose came to be.

 

 

“Ha! Astonishing!” Again, she was enthralled, delighted. Her spirits spiked up.

 

There came a third red rose, a fourth, and a fifth.

 

 

Tick, tock. The arms of the clock didn’t wait for her; it ran and ran. Tick, tock.

 

 

She didn’t stop. She won’t stop. Her hands moved automatically, repeating the same cycle over and over; her fingers danced with the sound of her own breathing.

 

 

“Yes! Yes! Oh, yes!” She was so ecstatic that nothing, not even the darkening of the sky that now creeps her room, could stop her trance.

 

 

Sixtieth.

 

Seventieth.

 

Eightieth.

 

Ninetieth.

 

 

By the count of ninety-nine, she was all moist but standing with such a dignified posture, and timid yet aggressive disposition, in her white gown and her bloodied bare feet.

 

 

One hundred.

 

Two hundred.

 

Three hundred.

 

 

"No more damn paint! I should finish this quickly," she exclaimed agitatedly, her own breath heavy and a bit forced.

 

 

And now there goes the last rose she spotted; she picked it up and envisioned its awaiting future.  It seemed so fragile to her, and so alone. With her fingers shaking with overwhelming anticipation, and a bit of fatigue from all the work, she began to tickle it with the brush that was now overused and exhausted.

 

 

“Finally! S**t, yes!!”

 

And everything was perfect for her.

 

 

She laughed so hard and danced all over the room with the rain, now tapping against her window, as her soulful music. She giggled, she glided. The flowers beneath and alongside her feet were leaping, excited. And when she decided that nothing else could ever compete with the ardent red that filled her sight, she spotted a hint of a foe under her army of painted roses.

 

Her overpowering elation subsided drastically.

 

 

She made a few steps, reluctantly, while wishing that it was nothing but a false alarm. Without more delay, she swept her fingers through the sea of roses, and cast aside anything that was on the way.

 

And there it was. She finally caught a glimpse - a single white rose.

 

 

It was beneath the dozens, hiding as if ashamed and scared of the poisons that disrupted its world. It lay there - shy but beautiful and pure, untainted with artificial color. That white rose was genuine.

 

There was nothing superficial about it.

 

 

Straightening her back, and moving three steps backward, her eyes widened enormously, her feet staggered and her hands, now half stretched in front of her, were involuntarily shaking. With all the strength that she could muster, she shrilled and shrieked with her now hoarse voice.

 

“No! No! No! No!!!”

 

 

After a few minutes of complete silence - though droplets of the rain still showered the land - Connie, not a least bit calm than before, stood and stared at the remaining white rose. Her heart hammered in her chest like never before, and her hands became all sweaty and frozen. No words came out of her mouth. No exact thought sprang to her mind.

 

 

She stared and glared, now both enraged and awed. 

 

 

She could not bring herself to pick it up, and curse it with the same faith as the rest. A moment’s pang of guilt emerged in her heaving chest.

 

 

The lone white rose, amongst the dozens of red, couldn’t be made more immaculate now that it survived by its own.

 

 

It was a survivor.

 

And she knew.

 

 

But she mustn’t give up. No, no, no! Like hell I would!

 

 

Without much ado, her frantic eyes scanned the room for something she could use to end such foolish peril. And there she saw it, on her overly organized desk, the blade she always used to sharpen her pencils.

 

 

She strode towards the desk by her window, forgetting all about the roses she trampled under her feet, and focused on simply reaching her destination.

 

 

One step, two steps, three steps, four steps. And she paused - reaching out her hand to hold onto the blade. Gently, she caressed the blade as if to lure it in her slender fingers and captured it seconds later.

 

She embraced the blade.

 

 

Three drops of blood, then four, five, six and seven trickled out of her clutched hands as she gripped hard. It was so painful yet it captivated her hands with the prickling sensation.

 

 

A second, then two, three and four seconds.

 

 

Faint laughter escaped her dry lips, and her eyes once again focused on the sworn enemy. She marched her way, one step at a time, in front of the pitiful white rose. Once she was a foot away, she carefully brought her arms up and positioned her hands on top of it.

 

 

And blood slipped through her fingers, traveling through her arms and white dress.

 

 

She bled and bled.

 

 

And blood continued to drip.

Reviews

[Lydia Shutter]

Oh, Mindy, this story is so very moving. Such an intricate allegory you have written here. The plain girl in the white dress, the one others spoke about behind her back. She lived in such a plain home, but the garden, ah, that was beautiful. Who would guess she was the one painting those roses? The single white rose survived, but poor Connie could not. She could not bear to be different. Heartfelt scenario with exceptional imagery throughout. A wonderful piece of writing, Mindy. Lydi**

[HLDXyQ3uGx]

Thank you so much for taking your time to read this! It means a lot to me. And you're right about Connie, she was forced to modify herself. Then she tried to introduce change to her own house, starting with the roses. But unlike her, the white rose was able to survive.

Thank you very much, Lydi! I'm so happy someone read this. I really thought about this one. Could I give you a hug? *Hugs*

[Katreya]

Hi! Great story! Firstly: Your opening sentence may need slight re-writing :) all of your ; should be , more or less ( The ; symbolises the writer was going to end the sentence, but decided not to, as opposed to being more like a , ) so if you take the opening line, and the closing line before the first real full stop, you get this: "In a quiet townhouse, there was a two storey home unlike the others", so as ya see, a townhouse in a house… etc.

"and there live…"

[HLDXyQ3uGx]

Oh, I didn't realize that ; meant that way! Thanks for pointing that out. I'll try to revise this sometime. :)

[Katreya]

No worries! :D It was a brilliant story nonetheless.