one – the good in me
It's been three years since that day.
The day Alfendi Layton ruined her life.
Diane stood alone in the empty field, her eyes fixed on the half-uprooted rose bush she had planted with her father several years back. She had been six, maybe seven. They had smiled together, her father promising large, blooming roses by the end of the season. She remembered the heat of the sun beating down on the two of them as they gardened together. The cold touch of the seawater on her toes, and the gentle hold of her father's hand as they walked along the seaside.
Clearly in her mind, Diane heard his voice. It was unusually gentle and quiet around her, as were his actions. He'd often let her sit on his shoulder when they took walks together. Their laughter would mix and become a sweet melody in the salty air. The breeze would rush through her hair and the gaps between her fingers when she held a hand out to the delicate clouds above. Fondly she recalled the day her father gifted her the many pearl necklaces she wore still to this day. They were shiny and lovely and resembled that of which royalty would wear. Perfect for my little princess, he had said when he gently placed one of the strings of beads around her neck.
Her hand wandered to the same necklace as she sat down cross-legged, the long grasses brushing up against her elbows and knees. She lifted her head and wiped at her eyes, small tears dripping down her cheeks. They had been so happy.
I love roses, she had said to her father on a particularly warm autumn evening. They're so kind and beautiful. I'd like to be a rose. Keelan had smiled warmly down at her, ruffling her hair lovingly as he plucked the single, purple flower from the vase he kept on the counter.
You're already better than a rose, he murmured, breaking the spikes away from the stem and leaning down so he was at eye-level with his daughter. With a bit of precision, he pushed away her long hair from the sides of her cheeks and stuck the stem behind her ear, letting it rest beside the pearl earrings she insisted on wearing daily. You're prettier than a rose and far more lovely than one.
One late spring morning, he had approached her with a bouquet of purple and white roses in his hands. Diane leapt up and down, giggling gleefully at the sight of the flowers. He bent over, handing them to the small girl. She could barely hold them without toppling over, and he laughed at her excitement over the blossoms he had purchased for her in town. The next day, she arose from bed and put on her favorite dress – a white high-waist one with little lavender dots scattered on the long, flowing skirt. The girl took three roses and pinned them to the chest of her dress, and then got out an old, cream colored sunhat. She pinned three more roses onto the hat and ran to her father, who was outside tending to the bushes. He was amazed with her design and encouraged the creativity, saying she looked like a true 'Rose Queen' as he called it. Her eyes shine and she danced around the garden, her gleeful laughter filling the empty sky. Her father sat on the porch with a coffee, smiling gently at his daughter.
She spent the best days of her life in that house. The best days of her life, symbolized in the sweet smell of the purple roses that bloomed annually around August. Diane held her head in her hands, her shoulders shaking as she tried to forget the days she had spent with her father.
But she couldn't.
It was true happiness. It was home. Those beautiful purple roses and their gentle, relaxing air where home to the girl. They were home to both the innocent child who had held her father's hand so lovingly and the teenage girl dressed in all dark hues of purple who no longer had any hands to hold. She felt no warmth despite the lack of clouds or even the slightest breeze. Diane had never felt so alone as she did right then.
She was in love with the past.
It was a past that she could never get back; a past that would never return. A past that came to an end when the phone rang that quiet, cold day three years ago. The man who had held her hand and held her life together had died.
Along with him, her joyful laughter and the smiles they shared died as well.
His voice became harder and harder to recall as she attempted to continue on with her life. The exact color of his hair, and the sound his shoes made when they squeaked against the wooden boards of the promenade. The touch of his hand and what the ground looked like from up on his shoulders. They all became fuzzy details she couldn't quite remember perfectly. Diane would spend hours trying to collect all her old memories, ultimately failing in the end. It broke her heart to see them slip through her fingers to easily. She would've rather died than see that happen.
Death.
Death was in the future, she knew. She risked everything with her plan. She risked to lives of others, herself, and her roses. Most importantly, she risked the death of his memory.
But Diane had already died.
She died the moment the mobile had slipped from her hands, landing on the oriental rug beneath her feet with a soft thump.
There was so much grief piled up inside her small body that it overflowed, venting in not tears nor words but thoughts. Thoughts that could kill and thoughts that could bring people to their knees. Thoughts she could not hold in and thoughts she could not stop.
Diane Makepeace had horrible thoughts, thoughts that brought people to their graves.
That didn't matter as long as her father was avenged.
No. She was lying to herself when she said she was avenging Keelan's death.
She was avenging another death altogether.
She was avenging the death of Diane Makepeace.
Alfendi Layton would suffer.
He would suffer the same crushing pain and agony that she did.
For he was the person who killed her happiness.
authors note: i might continue this idk
i just love writing sad characters and good memories yeah yEAH *yeah*
review or don't i dunno man this site is weird
cheers