Rose Thorns

April 27, 2010
By JacobM SILVER, Broussard, Louisiana
JacobM SILVER, Broussard, Louisiana
6 articles 0 photos 0 comments

Favorite Quote:
Every artist was first an amateur. --Ralph Waldo Emerson

She slowly glides down each stair, the train of the scarlet gown dripping down each step. Her butterscotch hair spirals around itself into an elegant French twist. Icy blue eyes illustrate every ounce of her anxiety. White gloves cover her hands; four long fingers caress the banister, her heart pounds. Waiting for her at the foot of the curving staircase, one hand in the pocket of his black tuxedo, he shifts his weight to his left foot. His onyx hair is slicked back; his expression shows nothing but tranquility and his bright emerald eyes see through her disguised emotions. His genuine smile pierces her soul. Taking one shallow breath as she reaches the bottom of the stairs, he takes her gloved hand in his. Their eyes meet. Instantly she is captivated, entranced by his gaze. The whole world peers in from outside the arched window where the moon glistens against the night sky, each star radiates in the background. The moon steals the show. The trees are gray in the distance, and a horse-drawn carriage passes on the dirt road behind the overgrown rose bushes in the distance.
He brings her to the center of the room, sliding his hand around her petite waist, interlacing his fingers in hers. The drum roll opens for the orchestra; her pearly painted eyes trace his face. Tchaikovsky's Fifth Symphony resounds through the grand room as they waltz around the space. Her gown sweeps the floor as they spin, laugh and embrace closely. They kiss, and her mind goes blank. Every bit of anxiety vanishes from her body, the grand crystal chandelier brightens every corner of the room, but those corners become dark. Suddenly, everything becomes blurry. The world begins to spin around her; dizzy and nauseous, she stops in her tracks. He yells to her, but all she can see are his lips moving. No sound, no vision. Darkness.
Sitting up on the vile bathroom floor, she gasps. She clutches the toilet, raspy gasps for air. Her fingers tingle and she looks down at her arm; the empty syringe and bright green tourniquet are still in place. Gradually removing the syringe, she winces, throwing it across the small, subway station bathroom. It crashes against the stained wall and shatters, plastic fragments scatter across the room. It was all just a hallucination, an illusion, a nightmare. Putting her back against the wall, she sighs before falling over face-down on the sticky, tiled floor, her smoky eyes heavy and wet. Sobbing on the floor, salty tears puddle on the floor. She slams her fists onto the tile, nearly cracking them with the force, stifled sobs echo though the small room. It was just a dream. It angered her, like the thorns on my rose. Rolling onto her back, she groans. She takes two short, shallow breaths, searching for oxygen. Her long blonde hair is tousled and knotted around her solemn face. The small light bulb hanging from only wire flickers and buzzes, sliding across the greasy floor to something she can lean on. She grips the blackened toilet, making her way to her feet and stumbling across the bathroom, out the rotting door.

The author's comments:
This assignment was to write a brief, very simplistic and almost deceiving piece of writing, similar to that of Kate Chopin's Story Of An Hour.

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