Roses are Red

Chapter 3: 9 days, 4 hours, 18 minutes


How far in is too far in? Because I think I was there about 9 days ago.

I wish I could say that I was, at present, sitting on the beach, sipping Mimosas, soaking up a tan and flirting shamelessly with a waiter who was probably ten years younger than me. I wish I could say that my vacation was the best since my honeymoon, and that it completely cleared my mind from any anxiety I may have put upon myself.

But I'd be lying.

It rained. It rained on my vacation. And when it wasn't raining, the toilet in my hotel was broken. And when it wasn't raining, and the bathroom wasn't flooding itself, I was just miserable. I tore a hole in my sundress on the door of my hotel room. I didn't pack enough underwear for the trip and had to buy some from a shady looking lingerie store. There was a hole in my butt for most of the second day. And I found hair in my Mahi Mahi with Mango Salsa at dinner. Correction: I found a hair under my Mahi Mahi at dinner. After I finished eating it. The Mahi Mahi, I mean.

And the best part? The most fabulous, gratifying, extraordinary part of this entire trip: Roses. You guessed it. They followed me. Not that I was going that far. The eastern shore, was literally 3 hours from my home by car, but I took a train. Nancy called it a "staycation", because I wasn't really going anywhere I hadn't been before. She used annoying little words like that. Like, "guesstimate" and "textation" and…"lovely". Anyway, the stupid flowers followed me from home. Not literally. A bunch of roses didn't actually grow little legs and walk to Eastern Maryland. But they were there.

For instance, The hotel I stayed in was hosting a Rose Ball; some sad excuse for twelve year-olds to say they went to "prom". The 5th annual Rose Day was going on; a bunch of locals who had nothing better to do than grow roses (I mean really, anyone ever heard of tulips? Magnolias? Lilies?!) marching down the street singing and dancing and throwing roses at people. I swear that one of those little kids on that float was chanting something demonic when she hit me in the head with her stupid rose.

Even after I left, deciding that my sanity (however much was actually left) was more important that a rainy, rosy "staycation", someone tried to make me pay for one! It was a homeless woman, selling roses and candy from a cooler aboard the train.

"Fancy a rose?" she asked, smiling genuinely. No, Eliza Dolittle, I don't "fancy" anything. Not a rose, or you or this lousy excuse for a vacation (What? You expected me to use that word again? No, I will not. Staycation or not…crap! Now it's stuck in my head. Like that song I hate. About that girl who kissed another girl. I kissed a- crap! Somebody get these words out of my head!). I reasoned, before shaking my head and sending her back to Henry Higgins, that, that in the long run, she was just going to sell them to someone else. Someone who may have been in my same predicament.

I had to save them.

"How much?" I asked. She informed me that they were 3.50 each. Geez, lady, talk about a rip-off. Well, times are hard. "I'll take them all." I told her and her face lit up. So, I ended up shoving out 49 bucks for some roses. When she moved to the other side of the train, I began my task. It wasn't hard; she must have removed all the thorns from the stems, because I felt no pricks as I went about mutilating the flowers. After I finished, I felt relaxed; at least a little more relaxed than I had for the entirety of my vacation.

As I left the train car, a puddle of rose petals was all that remained on my seat.

Back at home, I quickly grew tired but avoided the bed. I should have unpacked my suitcase, but I was feeling lazy. For some reason, I was drawn to the back window again, and as much as I didn't want to, I found myself gazing at the rose bush. It was lush with green leaves and a couple buds for very red roses after Nancy's party, but today, it was almost entirely roses and buds.

They were taunting me.

Stomping downstairs, I kicked the back door open and stabbed the earth with my low, brown heels. A yard away from my rose bush, and my ire was at an all time high.

"I would appreciate it if you'd leave me alone while I'm on staycation!" I yelled, placing my hands on my hips. I don't think it was an extreme case. I think it's a woman's right to kill (there's that word again…lets see…Execute? Annihilate? Eradicate? Yes! I like that one. Eradicate…) her husband, and go on vacation without thinking about it all the time. Cut me a break.

"This isn't my fault. I didn't do anything wrong. You…you did something wrong." I reasoned, beginning to pace across the span of the bush. In an instant, I found myself on the ground, kneeling in front of the rosebush like a sinner at an altar. Is that what I was now?

"You made me do this." I whispered, clutching the dirt under my hands. Sitting backwards on my heels, I hurled the clumps of dried dirt at him. I mean, the bush. Where'd that come from? When I ran out of loose dirt, I groped for anything I could reach: rocks, twigs, the tennis ball that some kids threw in our yard. My anger resulted in only a few petals dropping from the bush.

Breathing deeply, I crawled forward, and turned, letting my back fall flush against the east wall. I looked to the sky, waiting for my breaths to become even. Without thinking, I fingered a stem of the bush next to me, dragging my finger up the stem until I reached a full, lush rose. Plucking it from the stem wasn't difficult, and I brought it to my face, momentarily smiling because of the softness of the petals and the fragrance it emitted. I drew it over my lips, and smiled wider.

Even after the rose was gone, I could smell its perfume lulling me to sleep. The last thing I saw before the night rose and my eyelids fell shut, was the red stains on the palm of my right hand, where a large, red rose once sat.


I do not get the point of hospital gowns. I'm not having a surgery on my back, or a colonoscopy, or getting a massage. So why is there no back to this thing. What is the point?! And these hospital beds/cots/chairs? What, because you have a degree, you can't talk to me in an armchair, or something? And they're always cold! Always! It's a conspiracy. Everything about this place is a huge conspiracy.

I scheduled the appointment the morning after I woke up in my garden, wondering where the stains on my hands and skirt came from. My stomach was killing me, and I hoped that it was an actual illness as opposed to my conscience trying to nag at me.

The doctor, Dr. Harrison, was nice enough. He spoke like he knew more than he was supposed to, and if I wasn't feeling absolutely ill at the moment, I'd have called someone else. He asked all the usual questions, if I was taking any new medications, any injuries, last cycle (that's always a fun question when your doctor is a man…). The one that almost got me to break was when he asked if I ate anything unusual lately.

"I went on vacation and had some Mahi Mahi with a side of someone's hair." I joked. He smiled, and I knew he didn't suspect anything. Or if he did, he wasn't letting me know about it. How would it have sounded if I said, very casually, mind you, "Anything unusual? Well, there was the rose I ate last night when I went to yell at my husband, who is, by the way, buried under that same rose bush. That might have been it…"

Before he came in, I ran my hands down my face, feeling a little tired. When I set my hands back onto my lap, I noticed the smear of red in the center of my right palm. I didn't remember putting on any lipstick, but I wiped the stain from my palm with my other hand. I was surprised, however, when it returned, as a slowly expanding pool in the center of my hand, like I had a cut there. With my left hand, I wiped at the palm again, only for the reaction to be repeated, the pool of red liquid growing more radpidly this time.

Wiping my hands on the light blue hospital smock, I watched it absorb the red liquid, leaving a long, red mark down my thigh. I leapt from the cot, frantically rubbing my hands up and down my chest, and screaming when the stains began running down my arms and onto the floor. I could feel the liquid on my face, running down my neck and causing the hospital gown to cling to by chest. I closed my eyes and screamed louder. What was happeneing?!

A nurse came in and looked understandably worried. I began crying, since she obviously wasn't grasping the gravity of the situation.

"Dear, what's wrong?!" she shouted over my screams.

I stopped flailing and screaming and sobbing, long enough to extend the palms of my hands to her, showing her the red that was covered most of my body and skin. "I'm bleeding!" I screamed, feeling my voice crack.

She looked shocked, and stepped forward to offer comfort. "Honey, you're not bleeding at all."

The calm in her voice, made me calm down and look at my hands and smock.

Clean. All clean. Not a stain to be found. I clenched and unclenched my fists, looking for an immediate reaction. None. Was I hallucinating?

"I'll get you a glass of water, dear." she suggested, leaving the room, clearly frightened, mostly by me. I sat back down on the cot and tried to calm myself down. I was losing it, and fast, and it had to stop.

When he reentered, I looked up, hoping for some good news. Food poisoning, stomach virus. Maybe even a worm or something. No guilty consciences here…

"Mrs. Shortman, I'm glad you came in today, but I'm sorry Arnold couldn't make it. Spain, you said?" he said, looking at me, then at a few stapled sheets of paper in his hands.

"Yeah..." I answered, tired of small talk. Let's get down to it, I've got things to do, namely avoiding roses or the thought of Arnold.

"Well, be sure to let him know that his wife is doing alright. No signs of food poisoning or anything." he said, smiling. He must have read the worry on my face, because he continued.

"Mrs. Shortman, you're two months pregnant. Congratulations."


If you saw that coming, then sorry. If you didn't then-HA! Isn't that great?! You didn't think I'd write a story with Helga updating every two days talking about a dead Arnold, did you? No, no, my dear friends, I had to spice it up a smidge. Helga is really losing her mind, and this news is only going to speed up the Crazy Train. Isn't that a song? Yeah…Ozzy Osbourne. Haven't listened to him since freshman year of high school, when I thought I was gothic and "Ruthless" was just an idea in the back of my Biology notebook. Ahh, the memories…

BIG NEWS: If any of you have read my other story, The Compromise, then you should be aware that there are character photos up on my little website thingy (link found on my profile). Well, guess what? Roses are Red officially has Character Photos as well!! There's only two of them, but more will be added as the story goes on. There will only be seven chapters to RAR (Roses are Red), so, I'm about halfway through. Hope you guys are loving it so far. I saw my ninth grade English teacher (who, not only gave me 50 points extra credit for bringing in my Hey Arnold VHS of "School Play" when we were studying "Romeo and Juliet", but pretty much solidified my love for writing), and he was talking about how I was always writing and entering contests and stuff, and he asked me to email him whatever I was working on. Anyway, I'm considering sending in a version of RAR (I'm working on an original version, that might be a bit shorter, with original characters) because it's my first real "grown-up" fiction. What do you think? Yes? No? I'm not sure. I don't know.

-PointyObjects

P.S. I'm totally not kidding about this: Two days after I posted Roses are Red, the rose bush under my bedroom window starting sprouting buds. There is a single rose under my window right now. It's not red, but…come on? Freaky, right?