Beautiful Dreams
In all her dreams, she tended roses. Rows and rings and dangling tresses of roses. Uninhibited blossoms draped along her vision's field. In long designs, crimson eyes fluttered to the wind's flirt, blushing each sweet petal in tandem. There were no thorns, no spindle to bleed; her resin fingers remained unmarred.
"Shinku." Father's voice cooed, serene as streams. He echoed from deep inside the villa, unseen. "Shinku, are you out here again?
She set down the water. Put the can away in its place. Her lips didn't answer. He knew she was there.
"Won't you come visit me, Shinku? Come inside for a while?"
She pulled a bud from its bush and rushed to his study, slipping over plush carpet, white marble, and stairs. Through hallways strung with acrylic-spattered canvas. Beyond the buttresses, leaning like drowsy dolls, to stop at his chair. She drug over her case, stepped up on the leather to see over the long, velvet arms. Gave him the rose.
"Shinku." His thin smile wrapped upwards. His hands, broad and strong, pat her head, cheeks, nose. "What a pretty girl. Pretty girl, Shinku."
It was beautiful to dream.