• Roses are Red


    An Angel.

    Rosalia—the woman every man lusted for, but no man touched. Her slender form and firm bosom was all that which the townswomen loathed and envied; she herself was bathed in glorious virginal light. Pure, pale blue eyes glistened against her skin so white winter’s first snow was put to shame. Her lips, full and soft looking, were red as freshly spilled blood and contrasted beautifully with her unblemished skin. Lusciously angelic locks of golden silk cascaded down past her slim neck, falling frivolously in curls. In a world of imperfections, it was Rosalia who kept equilibrium.


    A Fallen Angel.

    The virgin was with child—no man was Husband nor Father. Her ruby red lips remained unravished, her skin untouched. But the people had named her as tainted, and so tainted she had become. Aphrodisia had left the townsmen, and Rosalia was forgotten. Alone, she lived, languidly and without cause, accompanied only by her swelling stomach. Her pastel orbs hardened every so slightly, her beatific lips thinned, and her fair yellow tresses limped lazily on her shoulders. She was perfect no more.


    A Madwoman.

    The fatherless child was born on a moonless night in a dilapidated wood cottage, wobbly built in the center of a white-rose-sea. Bathed in dark shadows and encircled with flowers whose whitish color rivaled that of Rosalia’s skin, the newborn daughter had been named Melantha—“dark flower”—by the eerie whispers of the passing wind. Child bearing had left the birthmother broken. Her’s was a devil-child, she wailed. Melantha’s skin was heavily darkened, as if the sun had mistaken her for an old farmer and scorched decades of daylight into her skin. She had eyes like no other—raw fire burned within her enigmatic crimson orbs—the gaze of the day-old child flamed like an eternal inferno. The roots of her hair, though short and ungrown, augured luridly scarlet strands that were to descend down her back like dripping blood. Irrevocably convinced that the Heavens had damned her with a demon-infant, Rosalia’s soul cracked in neurotic lunacy.


    An Insane Immortal.

    Madwoman and Child had faded and been forgotten—they had escaped even the mind of Old Man Time—and resided in the field of snowy roses. As was foretold, ruby tresses flowed down the head of young Melantha. The birthmother’s deranged habits worsened undeviatingly, yet the woman was able to preserve a sense of ethereal beauty. Having been in one another’s company for so long had not eased Rosalia’s paranoia of her devilish kin. Fear was a second nature—every motion made found Rosalia cowering in fright. Melantha, the cause of such distress, lived with a stoic face. Her unchanging breaths were spent outside alongside the roses, whose petals had not withered, fallen nor grown. The daughter, with her dark skin, saw the woman who cringed at the sight of her blazing eyes, but paid the coward no heed. It was like this that the two had lived for an ageless century.


    A Demoniac.

    Monotony can drive a lunatic crazy. Endless fright had destroyed Rosalia—the weak Rosalia. Her doppelganger lurked stealthily in the shadows, just as deranged as her counterpart, but infinitely times more wicked. Obsessively constant terror left no sense in the second self; only the need for an “end” remained. Sanity was irrelevant in such a situation. It is said that a mother will always love her child, yet it is known that man will do the deeds of Satan to live on. Mother had deemed the child as a threat to her life, and it was by her urge to survive that she had sought the young one’s death.


    The Devil.

    Warily, Rosalia crept anxiously towards the bringer of her misfortune. Sunlight glistened on the sharp, smooth blade clasped forcefully within her fingers. A mantra of paradisiacal freedom chanted in the madwoman’s broken mind. Melantha, sitting calmly and surrounded by untainted white roses, carried on with her ways, seemingly oblivious to the shadow looming from behind. Rosalia, being but a mere step away from her prey, cackled like a witch and thrust the pointed tip in her grasp forward. Alas, Melantha had swiftly turned around, her fiery eyes raging, just a moment before skin was pierced. The knife fell soundlessly to the ground, drenched in red. The spot where Melantha was once sitting composedly was soaked in pure gore; the pale roses flushed in the sanguine hue of fresh blood. Over the dead body stood a ghostly silhouette, blood spattered across her dark face, jagged knife in hand. A sly smirk spread across the she-devil’s face,



    “Roses are red,”

    ...

    “Aren’t they, Mother?”


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