Could a garden of white roses drenched in blood be compared in beauty to naturally red roses? If so, would you find them more beautiful, more mesmerizing? Would the fact that they’re beauty is unnatural make them more beautiful? Would you question where the blood came from and if the person who the blood belonged to felt pain? Whether they’re still alive, or would you not the see the white roses dyed red by blood beautiful? Would you be terrified by the fact that a garden of roses could smell like death?

As you stand and look at this garden of roses you see a corpse, and begin to feel guilty about how you find the site of death beautiful. You start to ask yourself maybe the person who lies dead amongst the roses below you was thinking the same things you were thinking. That they stood in the same spot you did. Saw the same roses you did. Whether, they didn’t mind dying in that very moment because your death would be beautiful or, like you, they were stupid enough too stand and look at the roses instead of running away from the possibility of death?

                                                             ***

She was a beautiful girl, everyone was mesmerized by her beauty and yet she had no friends, spoke to no one, and was always alone. It was as if she was a ghost, could only be seen. It was as though she never existed, no one knew anything about her, only a few had spoken to her (the conversations only lasted three seconds though). Everyone could see her, they all wanted to talk to her, but they couldn’t.

She lived alone her moth passed away after giving birth to her, she only felt her mother’s warmth for a short amount of time, it was so long ago that she cannot remember it. Her father burnt to his death in a mysterious fire in his car when she turned 15. His family suspects that she set her father’s car on fire. No one wanted her, her family was frightened by her lack of emotions and lack of communication. They decided she was old enough to live alone, and that her father left her enough money to survive.

Her parents loved roses. In the garden of the house her father left behind, there was a garden filled with white roses. They could be seen from every room in the house, most beautiful from the balcony. As beautiful as the garden of roses appeared, she wished they were red, that they weren’t so pure, that the pain, suffering and loss she felt would be reflected on them. Yet she didn’t want to remove her father’s roses and replace them with red ones.

That’s when she decided that shed change the colours of the roses herself, shell make them red even if its only temporary, shed die them red with the blood of those who claimed to love her, who’s love was impure. Shed turn pain and rejection into beauty.