Story of a Dead Flower
He brought flowers to her, expecting a good amount in pay off for the night in the kitchen, his steps to the kitchen were making him more and more excited.
"Aww, you brought these for me, they smell fascinating!"
"Yes and for this thickness."
He grabbed her body harshly.
"Let me put those flowers in a good place first, they can last longer and have a better life."
"Come on, just put them aside. You know I want you right now."
"Just a moment, please."
"I said put them aside. I already told you that I want you, now shut up and come here. You promised me for tonight."
"First we gotta handle those, please."
"You are trying to back off from your promises don't you, you stupid animal."
The situation was tense. Once tender, persuasive and soft voice was gone. Her voice was having cracks that made her sentences grew even sharper and louder against his husband.
"Once in my life, trust me!"
"I won't, it's just a stupid technique of yours to run away from your promise. I know you won't take care of this flower, it will die one day anyways."
"I will take care of it, why don't you just let me have a chance."
"You can't even take care of yourself, Dahlia."
"I took care of my life, even while you were screwing your life and blamed on me."
An ear-ripping smack on her face tore the rumble of voices. Dahlia, started turned back and left the kitchen, straight up went to bedroom. In tears and blood dripping from her lip made her unrecognizable in her hand mirror. She locked herself up. Her hands were shaking, in shock, disbelief, grief. She was thinking all by herself.
Was that what she deserved? All her life, trying to be better, trying to prove herself to a man who wouldn't even care how she feels. It was that simple to break a heart. It was that simple to change a woman in edge. She didn't realize that she is bleeding until her hand mirror felt a warm, almost boiling drop of rose-like fluid. There it was, blood in her face. Another drop, in her hand. She swept off the blood from her face. Threw her hand mirror to the bed.
She heard a knock on the door.
"Will you come back? We have some naughtiness to do and I made you a fruit bowl."
"No."
Right after that, the doorknob was enforced. It startled Dahlia,
"Didn't your dad tell you to not lock your doors?"
She didn't respond, stood at the corner of her room. Her furious gaze swayed upon the room, searched for some violence to overflow her feelings. The anger, the rage, the intense desire of scream. Yet she lacked a mouth, a proper mouth. She had pretty lips, without cracks from the cold. Her lips were soft, soft enough that a blow would bleed easily. Even if she bit her lip she would bleed it.
"In ten minutes, you will be at kitchen. Otherwise, you will be facing the consequences."
Her mother didn't left her all this time. Did she even know how Dahlia was injured? How she was bleeding off of her chin like a wolf in insanity? She took the hand mirror and envisioned herself once again. It was bloody, both the mirror and her face were bloody. That time she realized that, until she find the eye for an eye, nothing will matter. Little did she know, this would bring consequences.
"Alright honey, your princess in her way!"
She unlocked the room. Her husband was still next to the door, like a vulture waiting for her soul to die. Yet in a playful, cute tone, she said;
"Lead me the way, master."
"You know how to please me, don't you?"
In the eye of her hurricane there was a serenity. For just a moment, a tranquility. They walked to the kitchen.
"Your face looks good in red."
"Does it?"
She pushed him to the kitchen counter. Slowly kissed his neck while driving her hand through his shoulders to waist, there she had what she was looking for.
She grasped the kitchen knife and quietly pulled it up near to his neck.
"You're right honey, red color looks perfect on me."
She immediately slide the sharp tip into his carotid artery. A wine colored, tasteless thing poured off from body of the blade. First to his shoulder, then to his chest and dripped down from his waist. He pushed her but it was too late to stop the strike. It was too late to find a cure to his wound. He bled until he had no more. A gross, dense odor filled the room as she was leaving.
It was not so late that she realized, the flower was ripped from it's soil filled pot. She put the dead flower inside of her clothes. It was corrupted and dead, unlike it's natural scent. The rotten smell of the flower overcame the blood odor at least.
Yet the dead, rotten flower made her sick. So sick that she was no different than the dead flower in no time. Only if she ran away from the red colored clothes and someone who would bring flowers only for promises, she would live a happier, longer life without any gross scent.
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