As the young child perched herself atop the mildewed stone, her bright, turquoise eyes resembled the ocean waves caressing the rock she sat on. The child had a delicate scarlet rose clenched in her tiny fingers. She believed in fantasy, in King and Queens, Princes and Princesses, but most of all, she believed in love. She wanted more than anything to fall madly in love.
She peered at the perfect rose with great admiration before she cruelly plucked its innocent petals from their rooted home, giddily reciting the words with her smaller than small voice, “He loves me.” and then, “He loves me not.” She did just so until her eyes filled with icy tears as she quickly and carelessly ripped the very last petal and choked out, “HE LOVES ME NOT!”
She collapsed as that last, torn petal fluttered into the sparkling sea and drifted away with the slow and steady current. Clenching her fists, she realized the truth of the evil in the world she once called her castle.
From there on out, roses no longer resembled love but the crimson, stained carpet in which her suicide took place. And on the letter to her beloved was one, simple request. “One dozen roses, please.” And so it was at the foot of her grave.