By Raquel, grade 10
Her mother laughed, roses in hand. They glowed with the buttery light of the setting sun, saffron and gold dancing across smiling faces.
There they stood. The roses. Pristine, impeccable. Stark against the dull green, padded walls. Perfect in their uselessness. Strangely luminous under the glare of the fluorescent lights. Sanguine. Falsely so.
She watched the blood trickle down her fingers. Dripping onto the honey-gold petal, the red a striking contrast to the pale buttermilk petals.
The vase lay shattered beside her. All sharp edges and thorns. A single tear slid down her cheek, adding to the crimson river across her palm.
She slept restlessly, floating in and out of consciousness. Flashing colours swam across her eyes. Drowning her in streaks of canary and mustard. Her mothers laughed echoed in her ears. Ringing. And there were the roses.
Her eyes snapped open, trying to forget the vision. Yet she was greeted by a fresh vase of the flowers. No trace was left of the shattered vase. The scattered flowers. Nothing but a streak of red staining the cushioned wall.
Her throat closed, arms hugging her knees. Fighting the wave of panic before the walls started closing in and she fell into a fitful sleep. In her dreams she was greeted by her mother. In a pale buttercup dress, carrying a single, saffron rose.
She woke, drenched in sweat and gasping for air. There they stood. A strangle gasp escaped her lips, choking. And the world was spiraling. Throwing her against the walls, floor, ceiling. Her mother’s laugh echoed in her ears. Ringing. And there were the roses.
Everything stopped. And the walls started whispering. Terrible whispers. Of warm summer nights, laughing in the sunset, and roses. Pristine, impeccable. Perfect in their uselessness. Sanguine. Falsely so. Yellow.
Elements Magazine 