Rose

by Olivia Sellars

Rose

The lush, crimson, red rose sat on the bright white windowsill, silhouetted the chaotic London city which was brimming and buzzing with life.
He struggled from his armchair and unsteadily walked towards the flower - a small watering can in hand - his slippers quietly brushing the polished wooden floor.

'There you go my lovely; grow, grow big and strong and live forever.' His voice cracked like the dying embers of a scorching amber fire.

Days arrived and left far too quickly, leaving a vast emptiness swallowing the sky. Each day he shuffled to the windowsill and fed the rose; each day he shuffled to the windowsill and picked up another withered petal which had lost its vibrant redness, its blood.

*********************

He woke up in his lonely bed, tiredness snaking through his body. He could no longer sleep. He thought there was now no reason for him to get up; the left side of the bed was no longer slept in. An empty space. He had no visitors, no job.

His eyes flickered to the rose. He must get up, he had to tend and feed the rose. An hour of standing and whispering stories to it was a straining effort for him now, but of course he continued, even though his stories now grew shorter and he had to lean on his walking stick for support. The fading rose now stooped against the windowsill, its paint peeling.

However, the world continued to buzz with energetic life around him. Car horns beeped, street lamps glimmered and people rushed and chattered, but he no longer heard or cared for life outside his window. All he focused on was his decaying rose.

*********************

No longer was he able to walk; he was forced to lie in his armchair with his lips weakly twitching into a murmur of communication. His face became a mask that formed a lie enforced by loneliness and pain, but he had to protect the rose. But, the petals continued to fall.

As the room darkened, he lay in his armchair nearly motionless, stroking the spider web like petal weakly, wincing at every gulp of air. He was stroking it goodbye. Stroking himself goodbye.

When the rose finally fell, so did he. He was nothing apart from the rose. The rose was nothing apart from him. The ragged and rotten petal drifted and twirled on his shallow breath until it fell. The final petal disintegrated into dust as his crimson red heart stopped. However, the world continued to buzz with energetic life beyond him. Car horns beeped, street lamps glimmered and people rushed and chattered.

Like his wife Rose, he was now forgotten, but at least he was with her.