Disclaimer: I do not own any characters mentioned. I am (sadly) not JK
Rowling. So don't bug me.
I'm living a lie. But even that's a lie. Because I'm not living. Oh, I'm alive. But I'm not living. I'm dead inside. Everything is automatic. Nothing has heart. Ever since he left, I'm not real. I'm a phantom in the body of a woman. Now he's gone. And I've sacrificed myself. I can't live without him, but I know that my husband would've died without me. But he was needed. And then it was over. And he didn't need me anymore. But I'd grown too attached. I couldn't let go of life. Now I can, though.
It was all decided one day when I was sitting at home. My husband was gone. Off on a project at work. As always. Not that I care. It gives me more time to be alone. More time to decide. And then, he sent me flowers. White roses. I wondered what roses meant. Why he hadn't sent me red ones. So I looked it up. White roses signify spiritual love and purity. So he thought me pure? Spiritual? I almost had to laugh. I had loved another, for so long. I hated him then. For not knowing me. For not caring enough to know. Then, I looked up red. Red was of course, passionate love. No surprises there. But then, dark red. Unconscious beauty. Perfect. That was me. Forever sleeping in eternal splendor, like a Sleeping Beauty who'd never wake up. But now, I'd sleep in more ways than one.
I left the printed sheets on the table, next to where I'd lay. I took a quill and an inkstand and set them next to them. I'd use them. Then I took a knife that I'd kept for when the time came. Not just yet could I do it. I slit my wrist, but not the vein. Just enough to bleed a bit. With that I filled the inkstand, and then dipped the quill into it. On the sheets I underlined the meaning of white and dark red roses, and scribbled my own little note on there.i I was already dead. I died with him./i Satisfied, I made another cut like the first on the other arm. Just for symmetry. I dropped a few beads onto the sheet, to make it look like ink. They wouldn't be able to tell until they read it. Then I cut two long gashes from my palm to my elbow, on either side, and slit the vein. Strawberry gashes of poison. I let the blood spill onto the bouquet, smiling as all of the roses were stained crimson. I lived a lie. I died a truth.
I'm living a lie. But even that's a lie. Because I'm not living. Oh, I'm alive. But I'm not living. I'm dead inside. Everything is automatic. Nothing has heart. Ever since he left, I'm not real. I'm a phantom in the body of a woman. Now he's gone. And I've sacrificed myself. I can't live without him, but I know that my husband would've died without me. But he was needed. And then it was over. And he didn't need me anymore. But I'd grown too attached. I couldn't let go of life. Now I can, though.
It was all decided one day when I was sitting at home. My husband was gone. Off on a project at work. As always. Not that I care. It gives me more time to be alone. More time to decide. And then, he sent me flowers. White roses. I wondered what roses meant. Why he hadn't sent me red ones. So I looked it up. White roses signify spiritual love and purity. So he thought me pure? Spiritual? I almost had to laugh. I had loved another, for so long. I hated him then. For not knowing me. For not caring enough to know. Then, I looked up red. Red was of course, passionate love. No surprises there. But then, dark red. Unconscious beauty. Perfect. That was me. Forever sleeping in eternal splendor, like a Sleeping Beauty who'd never wake up. But now, I'd sleep in more ways than one.
I left the printed sheets on the table, next to where I'd lay. I took a quill and an inkstand and set them next to them. I'd use them. Then I took a knife that I'd kept for when the time came. Not just yet could I do it. I slit my wrist, but not the vein. Just enough to bleed a bit. With that I filled the inkstand, and then dipped the quill into it. On the sheets I underlined the meaning of white and dark red roses, and scribbled my own little note on there.i I was already dead. I died with him./i Satisfied, I made another cut like the first on the other arm. Just for symmetry. I dropped a few beads onto the sheet, to make it look like ink. They wouldn't be able to tell until they read it. Then I cut two long gashes from my palm to my elbow, on either side, and slit the vein. Strawberry gashes of poison. I let the blood spill onto the bouquet, smiling as all of the roses were stained crimson. I lived a lie. I died a truth.