Requiem for a Rose

by Mark Pettus

I brush my fingers across the rose, and its petals, soft and firm, part at my touch, giving me a glimpse of the paler surfaces inside, which have never before been exposed to the light. It's red. No, it's deeper than that, with dark undertones, the red of velvet, the red of blood. Venous blood, blood devoid of energy, making its way back slowly toward the heart, filled with darkness and poison, its life-giving power exhausted. Spent. Wasted. Used up. Like her.

When I'd met her, she'd been a woman-child, a rosebud waiting to blossom, lovely to behold, and filled with the promise of the beauty that would soon unfold. Care and nurturing were all she needed. And time. In time, she would have flowered. She would have been breathtaking.

I was impatient. I fell in love with her beauty, and with her promise. I didn't give her the time to bloom, instead I plucked her out of her home, and made her my boutonniere, the ornament I wore on my chest to hide the ugliness of my own heart. I held her to my face, and breathed in the scent of her, and it filled me with a flame that shone out through my eyes. I think it was that flame she saw when she looked at me, because she said I was the light of her life. It had to be that flame, because when I look in the mirror now I see nothing but the darkness of my own soul.

At first, she followed me like a flower follows the sun. We went everywhere, and everyone commented on how lucky I was to have such a beautiful girl so obviously in love with me. The sun in its turn feeds the flower, filling it with brightness and warmth - a spotlight that shines on the beauty below. I bought her things. I gave her things. I didn't give her my heart, though, because I knew that my heart was small, and dark, and damaged, and empty, and that she would find it unworthy.

After a time, I began to wonder when she would blossom. Instead of flowering, she had stalled - a perpetual rosebud - determined to show only her outermost beauty. She seemed unable, or unwilling, to open up, to allow a look at the deeper, more mature petals beneath. Thinking I could encourage her, I began to pick at the brittle, dry outer petals. I told her how to be more, how to be better, how to be prettier, how to be worthy of the light I shined on her, and when she didn't bloom, I turned off the light, and with it, the warmth. That was when I think she realized that she had stopped growing. It didn't take her long then to discover that I was not the sun, and she went in search of another light, and I found myself alone with my darkness.

She told me today that she had found someone new. She says she loves him, and that he loves her. They plan to marry. She said she was sorry, that she knew I was still hurting, but she couldn't live in darkness. He has promised her the sun, she says, and the moon, and the stars. She says she knows he's lying, that he can only give her the moon and the stars, because the sun is gone. She doesn't know where it went, but the last time she saw it, it was in my eyes, and the reason she had to leave was because it made her too sad to look into my eyes and not see it shining back at her. She said that, and then she kissed me and walked away.

She gave me this rose. It's beautiful, and in full bloom. I explore the subtle shades of pink and red hidden in its folds. One petal on the outside is flawed, scarred by some unknown trauma in its development. I pluck at it, and the rest fall away, leaving me holding nothing but the stem and thorns, one of which pierces my skin. I suck on the wound, and taste the bitterness of my own blood, and spot a daisy blooming in the window of a cafe. I marvel at the beauty of springtime, and wonder how I'd look with a daisy pinned to my lapel.