Roses

The summer sun beat down over nearly everything in the small town that everybody has once loved. The streets used to be full of life, now everything was dead, lifeless.

A girl sat in her mother’s garden. She liked the roses, particularly the white ones.

Her mother had told her not to touch the roses, ever since she was old enough to crawl. They had thorns, they caused “ouchies”. Her mother stopped telling her, she was 15 years old now, she knew better.

She had never touched the roses, the thorns her mother had warned her of scared her. She has seen her friends prick themselves so many times.

As much as the thorns scared her, she always had an undying curiosity surrounding them. People fear the unknown, and this was her unknown.

She admired the flowers, how alive they were compared to the hometown she dreaded so.

When she was younger, the town seemed bright, amazing. It never ended. As she grew up, people moved away and people died.

None of those things ever seemed to have a lasting effect on her, she wrote letters to Stella and she didn’t really know Thomas. When he was found in a ditch, she didn’t really feel anything.

She looked at the flowers, the more she looked at them, the more her curiosity grew. She wanted to touch. She knew she shouldn’t. But she really wanted to.

It’s like playing with fire, you know it’s going to hurt, but it’s still intriguing. She needed to touch them. It was past just the point of want, she craved it. She needed it.

Glancing around, she reached for the roses. She was almost shaking in anticipation to finally touch what had taunted her for years.

Just as soon as she touched, she pulled her hand away. It didn’t hurt as much as she expected it to.

She looked at the palm of her hand, the bends of her fingers. They were welling blood. She started to panic. What would her mother think? What would anyone think? She had touched the roses.

Blood dripped onto some of the roses. She balled her fist, pressing it onto her stomach, trying to hide the fact blood was starting to seep between her fingers.

She tried to make it up the stairs without her mother noticing, the screen door slamming behind her. Forgetting that she was dripping blood, she grasped the doorknob.

She was crying now. Why did she touch the roses? Why why why? She asked herself a million times as the blood rinsed down the sink drain with the water.

She poured alcohol over her hand, wincing as it worked its way into the wound. It was a consequence. If you disobey, you have to pay the price.

She had washed all the evidence away, finally drying her eyes, reapplying her perfect doll face.

Her mother opened the door and saw the blood staining the front of her dress.

“Did you touch the roses?”

“No, I didn’t touch the roses.” her eyes welling up with tears.

“Did. You. Touch. The. Roses?”

“No, mother, I-”

“Don’t lie to me! You ruined your hand. You ruined your hand, dress, and the roses!”

“Mother, no, I-”

“Stop lying. You’re filthy. You have ruined yourself. What is everyone going to think when they find out?”

“Mother, it’s not my fault! They were so tempting, I didn’t mean to.”

“That doesn’t change the fact you did!”

Ruined.

She was ruined.  

Reviews

[Chris]

Very, very well put together. Tight and emotion-packed flow.

Might I suggest a line space between paragraphs? The space would help the eyes follow the story more easily.