Disclaimer: I don't own St Trinian's, but I DO own the poem at the start, which I wrote myself.

Flash POV

No rose shall live forever, but decay and shed its petals into the morning breeze. And now my rose is to leave me, and become but a memory of the days when the sun shone down upon my life. The thorns that come with each rose were lesser on this rose of mine, the fragrance that radiated off her more sweet and beautiful than had ever touched the air before. The rose of mine is the finest that all had ever seen or smelt. The grass grew more abundant where she tread upon it, the water clearer where her reflection shone. The stars were brighter where she pointed to them, the roses finer where they met her touch. But yet my rose is to depart so soon. And may I say that she will never be forgotten. The beauty that she brought into this world will never perish, for my rose will keep in blooming in my heart.

She lays in the bed, looking so tired, so broken.
Her breathing is slight, her eyes shut. She could be resting, but the faint gasp of pain every few minutes shows that it is otherwise.
She is suffering.

The white of the fresh sheets laid over her frail body can't compare to the pale flesh that is almost hanging off her body. However the sheets look pure, clean and fresh, whereas she looks sickly, the almost green tinge unearthly in her skin.
Slowly, I move across the silent room to stand beside her. Gently, I stroke the black hair that spills down her cheek. She used to smile at me when I did that. She used to reach out and clutch my hand.
I softly pull the sheet back from her limp arm. She was always thin, but now there is almost no flesh at all on her body. Sadly, I place my dark hand on her tiny white one. It feels so delicate that if I held it too tightly it would shatter. Her bones are so fragile, her skin so close to her bones that I can feel the entire network of little bones. Could these limp, half-dead fingers really be the ones that used to be the ones that would snatch my hat off playfully, grinning from ear to ear, and put it on herself, the brim slipping over her ebony fringe- could it really be the same hand?

She moves slightly as I touch her. One finger twitches slowly, and my gaze falls on her dry, pale lips as the corners twitch into a tiny smile. I hope that she will move a little more, but she doesn't, and I resume my seat. I sit for hours on end, making sure that she is alright.

I look out the window onto the garden. The rose bushes grow there, a few loose petals floating in the breeze. I remember the day we planted them. I remember her face, breaking into a huge smile when the first rosebuds grew. She was so tender towards them- she watched them grow, watered them, cared for them. And I watched and shared her delight when they opened for the first time. I never thought that she was cut out for this life, but she did it perfectly and still managed to be the same girl I fell in love with, the same girl I married that glorious spring day. I remember our wedding, remember when first moved into this house, when she danced out to the fountain in a silky white dress that flared out as she ran. I remember following her laughing, back in the days when I still laughed, reaching out and taking her hands, drawing closer to those smiling red lips...
Memories are beautiful, but each one is a dagger in my heart.

I watch the sun that streaks through the thin, white curtains. It floods the room, dances off the gold wedding ring on my finger, shines onto her face. A gentle breee flutters out the open window, the curtains quivering, then all is still.
And that's when I know that it's over.
As I gaze upon her face, the face that held so much beauty and warmth, I know that it is the face of a dead woman.
She is gone.

But not entirely, for my rose will keep on blooming in my heart.