I walk across the earth, towards the rose garden ahead of me. I squint, uncertain if what I see is real or a illusion. There have been so many. The brilliant red sings to me, drawing me closer. The colours are so bright, I wonder how I missed it before. I walk towards the garden, feet moving of their own accord. It does not matter if I want it or not.
I am surrounded by the beautiful flowers, they seem to become more exquisite as I move deeper into the garden. The roses are real, growing from the same desert dirt that I have walked on for miles. But the roses are real. I run my hand over the top of them, careful not to drop so low as to encounter the thorns. They are soft to touch, and thick, velvet in my hands. I lean forward and sniff. It floods my nostrils. None of the roses I'd ever encountered had smelt as strong or as heavenly as this. Soon I was lost in the beauty, wandering into the middle of the garden, where the rose bushes grew highest.
But something was wrong. Something serious.
I glance about, unsure.
The roses are more beautiful than ever. Maybe its because the sun is beginning to set?
There we go. I need to find a place to rest. A safe place, away from the holograms that beckon and gleam with promise, only to disappoint, and beasts of the night that are ever hungry.
Glancing around the garden with regret, I turn and take a step back the way I came.
I slip, hands scrambling for purchase. Thorns rip at my hands, and blood wells.
Laying on the ground, I open my eyes. I lie in a pool of scarlet blood, slippery to touch.
It's not mine.
I roll onto my back. The sun is well into setting by now.
I move to sit up, but find myself strangely glued to the ground. I glance at my arms. I can no-longer see my arm, a limb made of sunburn, welts and half-healed scabs. Instead my arm is a mass of writhing vines. I can't feel any of it. I am numb to the plants that whip at my skin, thorns drawing blood. So much for avoiding them.
The blood is drawn into the parched earth, the hard-packed sand sucking at the blood greedily. The earth is hungry.
The thorns scrape and claw at me, pulling the blood that dwells under my skin above.
The earth is hungry.
The blood is drawn into the ground as quickly as it can escape from my bag-of-bones body.
The earth is hungry, and I live to serve the earth.
I relax, and let the earth pull apart my skin and reach for the prettiness inside.
I do not matter. I live to serve the earth.
I see the stars peeking about above me. No, go back to where you come from. You do not want to see the ugliness that walks this planet, the creatures of darkness and the race that destroyed the earth. Go back to where you came from, and live blissfully unaware of the horror that poisons this earth.
My vision is going black. Or is it night? I am beginning to feel it now, the vines picking at my bones, looking for scraps of flesh to gnaw on. You won't find any on skinbag Cora.
My vision is fading.
It does not matter. I live to serve the earth.