Beautiful Death of Roses
"One day your life will flash before your eyes. Make sure its worth watching." -Unknown
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My mother's favorite perfume is a distilled peppermint and chocolate essence...she always reminded me of winter with that scent.
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Her favorite song is Elvis Presley's "Return to Sender", dad bought her a single of it when they were dating and she always plays it on the record player when he's away.
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Her favorite food is roast duck with apples and prunes, but she will only eat it from a specific resterant that has been out of business for five years...I finally tracked down the chef and got the recipe for Baaya a year ago.
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Her favorite animal is the giraffe. She has giraffe slipper, giraffe statuettes, stuffed giraffe's, glass giraffe's, large giraffe's, small giraffe's, giraffe's for the office, giraffe's to wear...she even has a giraffe dinner set we use for 'African theme nights'.
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My mother's favorite movie is "Breakfast at Tiffany's" with Audry Hepburn. We watch that movie every Sunday, right after dad church, before dad watches "The Jack of Diamonds" and I get to see my Sherlock Holmes DVD's.
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My mother's favorite actress is an American named Lucille Ball. She met her once at a charity event in London and gushed like a school girl from what I hear. We have an autographed picture in the parlour. Her favorite actor is Jonathon Morris.
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She prefers the colour green over anything, is rather fond of pink though she won't say why, wore baby blue on her wedding day, and detests the colour brown. Her private study is done entirely in peach and white tones, which makes one feel as if they're in the center of a creamcicle.
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She wanted to be an astronaut as a child, a doctor when she is in school, and always dreamed of being a writer of some acclaim...she is a mother, teacher, lover, wife, confidant, punisher, and one of the most brilliant painters I know.
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My mother is formally, The Viscountess of Newkirk. We are related to the royal family via Lady Spencer and several degrees of birth and marriage that I can never remember, as mother always remembered the family tree better then anyone else. Informally, she is simply called Effie.
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My mother loves roses, more then anything else. They were her passion, her hobby, her...they were her first child, her first lover. She grows acres of them, all across the left hillside of our manor house in England. Rows of perfect, beautiful blooms of every colour she could get her hands on. English roses, American roses, Japanese roses, any nationality and breed, so long as they'll grow, she has them.
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My mother died, a week ago. She was buried in the family cemetery next to her brother who died in the army and her father who was killed in an auto accident.
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Saguru stared at the last red rose bloom on the last bush in the rose garden. Sweat slipped down his arm, traveling into the gardening glove on his hand, curling around his finger before being absorbed by the thick leather. The smell of roses was thick, cloying to his senses, causing his mind to fade from reality to past and back again...or maybe that was the heat, it was an unbearably hot day, to be standing outside without shade.
He licked his lip, tasting blood from when another bush had attempted a brutal attack on his face before being cut into submission with the rusting, dulled gardening shears now clutched in his right hand. He swallowed, reaching out to gently grip the rosebud, just below it's sepal, gloved thumb gently brushing over the bulbed end that would become the hip before placing the edge of the sheers gently against the still golden green stem.
He closed his eyes, closing his hand and listening to the sound of the sheers slicing through the living plant, the bud of the rose gently hitting leaves and stems alike as it fell, landing with the softest of sounds at his feet.
He allowed his eyes to open, staring at the empty stem before him, before turning and examining the sea of similarly empty bushes surrounding him, their roots bathed in a shower of rainbow buds. He allowed the sheers to drop from his hands into the grass as he headed back for the house, gloves discarded along the way, ending up half buried in a pile of white rose buds.
He trod carelessly over each bloom in his path, their crushed scent filling the air, teasing his nose as he passed, getting their sweet revenge for his torture. He kicked his shoes off carelessly on the porch steps, eager to rid himself of the oils from the damaged petals, stripping off his shirt as he headed for the laundry, streaks of water making tracks on his burnt, dirty cheeks.
He tossed his clothes in the pile of laundry to be washed, grabbing his father's dressing gown as he headed to the library, closing and locking the doors behind him. He grabbed a full decanter of scotch and a glass, pulling the curtain cords as he passed to close the drapes, blocking out the sun and the garden from view, decorating the room in darkness.
Taking a seat at the large, mahogany desk that decorated the far wall, he poured himself a full glass of the amber liquid, raising it in a silent toast before taking a sip, and finally, giving himself over to the tears that were already decorating his face.
My mother, loved roses more then anything. She especially loved receiving them as a surprise from father. That's why, when she opened the door to her death, she never thought an assassin's gun could be hidden beneath the tender blooms laid out so perfectly in their box.
My mother...loved roses. And now...
I can't stand a single one.