I was once told that you hate the one you love, and that you love the ones you hate. At the time I simply snorted, thinking, how absurd! I went about my usual duties, and as I did so, that one little phrase always came back to me. Such a small thing, such a simple manipulation of the tongue, yet it seemed that fate herself would teach me the true meaning of these words.
Years later, when he would caress my skin and voice his affections, one thing he said caught, and held, my attention.
"I love you"
Shock had rippled through my body in huge, submerging waves.
My heart pounded in my ears.
My mind froze.
My breath caught in my throat.
And it was then that I realized that I was yours.
No one had ever told me that they loved me, I wanted that love, I wanted it so badly! I craved it with all the little bits and pieces of my tattered soul. Every single cell in my body screamed for it! My spirit hungered for love to the point that it was on its knees begging!
And you knew.
You used it to your advantage, forever pulling me closer to you. Your strings played me right into your waiting hands, extended in a silent offering, a gift.
And I knew.
I knew that I could never escape, that we were destined, meant to be.
So foolish I was.
So incredibly foolish! How couldn't I have seen it!? Why did I not put a stop to it the minute I heard its call. That sweet, sweet lulling call. That voice! It was ecstasy, if only for a little while. I had lost myself in the wild abandon of love. Lips had brushed, tongues had danced, hands had entwined, and I had been almost sure that love had been exchanged.
But no, love had nothing to do with it. Love had made no appearance in this charade, love had been snoozing on the sidelines, sprawled about in an almost drunken manner. Instead love's brother had taken up the job, and what a poor excuse for a replacement he was.
Hate.
All this time it had been hate that had blossomed between us, a crimson rose waiting to be plucked from its bush. If one grabs a rose with hasty hands it will slice one's hand, and yet, we kept on holding it, for it is too beautiful to abandon. And tended carefully it could last without the life its home provided, and one will stop and admire it in all its perfection, every once in a while leaning into it to allow its fragrant scent to wash over oneself.
Eventually the rose will grow old, its majesty will begin to fade. It will shrivel up, its withered petals falling away one by one. Its only remnants will become nothing more than a dry stick that was once a stem. It will die.
The illusion of love faded away after time.
We felt it.
We knew it.
And yet, we denied it. We clutched desperately to that dead stick of a rose we called love, its thorns cutting deeper into our flesh, carving scars that would forever be reminders of our so called romance.
Love became lust, and lust became revulsion, and I wondered how I could keep tending to the roses you would shower me with whenever we met. Each and every one had its own vase. These roses lined every windowsill in my apartment. Slowly, my living space became overwhelmed by hate spawned flowers, they littered every surface.
After Kyoto, I entered my apartment, finally glad to be rid of you, but no, the roses greeted me with steely silence. I glared at my houseguests that I had once so willingly tended, and instead of throwing them out, I waited. I waited until every last petal had fallen, each crystal vase now occupied by nothing more than a scrawny twig. I smiled a small, smug grin and began to dispose of them. Vase after vase shattered against the pavement of the alley behind my apartment as I threw each one out the window. I had but to get rid of the final vase.
I raised my arm to slam it upon the ground below, but I never did. Instead I cradled it, my amethyst eyes never leaving the glass. I reached inside to remove the shriveled rose, as I did so my finger caught on a thorn. I muttered a curse and brought my finger to my mouth. I glared daggers at the final rose, and with more than just a little contempt, threw it down into the alley. The glass smashed upon impact, crystal shards flew everywhere, and satisfaction flooded my veins. I continued sucking on my finger, a blank expression on my face as I took a seat on the couch.
The image of the dead rose filled my vision. The way the droplet of my living, crimson blood had looked against the dull ashen black of the thorn, firmly imprinted upon my mind. I could not help the shiver of discomfort that ran up my spine, for in some way I felt as if it was his hand, his thorn of a hand that had taken my blood.
And I knew, I knew he would be back. After all, the thorn of a rose never dies.
Owari