(A/N: This was written as a birthday gift for my dear friend hecateae.)
It is the absence of color in her skin that paints the beauty of the rose. Its petals bleed a vivid shade of scarlet as the thorns bite into her ashen fingers.
"I am like the moonlight," she says, her voice scraping against thin air but bearing no bitterness. "I am just a reflection." The antithesis of my twin.
"But moonlight lends beauty to what in sunlight would look mundane," Destruction replies, grinning fondly and leaning down to kiss her cheek.
When he leaves, she turns to a mirror, the rose still in her hand, and she says to her reflection, "I am like the moonlight."