A Rose from her Meadow

February 25, 2010
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She pulled the crimson rose from the bush, not caring if the jagged thorns would swipe her finger. They did pierce her delicate skin and a bold liquid, darker than the rose itself sprang forth from her index finger. Still she did not care. She walked to the other side of the oak tree and sat down. The hard bark of the lush tree pushed into her frail back as she remained immobile. The girl stared out into the beautiful meadow filled with wildflowers and soft green grass. Her purple sundress had fanned out before her as she stretched out her pained legs. The bruises were slightly healed on her shin but the marks on her arms were fresh. Father had become deliriously, angry yet again. The imprints from his thick, leather belt had left permanent wounds upon her skin and soul. She let her aching toes brush the slightly damp, thick grass, and a tickling sensation arose. She felt at peace in this quaint meadow. Safe from the outside world and essentially everything else. The girl would often visit the meadow to calm her restless mind. The place had become her sanctuary, her mantra from her father‘s brutal roars. Suddenly her fragile chest went hollow, and her throat grew thick as she heard him bellowing her name, again. She couldn’t breathe as she tried to pull the slipping meadow back to her.
“Where is she?” he shouted viciously to his wife.
“Richard, please let her sleep tonight!, Please!”, the woman timidly begged.
As he bounded up the stairs to her bedroom shouting, “Girl, get down here!” Laurel forced herself to depart from her placid meadow and return to reality.

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