Blood Rose

March 7, 2012
On a cold December night, a girl lay bleeding in the street. A pale white rose in her hand, a silver dagger beside her. As she lay bleeding, snow fell. Her pale skin had grown cold with Death’s eternal kiss. Her eyes stared openly at an endlessly empty sky. She had yet to see Death and perhaps tonight He would surely take her. She laid still; her heart continued to pulse. She could feel all the blood pushing through her veins, hot tainted and unforgiving, as it slowly drained from her limp body. As the blood pooled unto the street in a clean scarlet river, her eyes closed, only to open again to a figure.
He was a taller man, not much older than 17. His eyes, blue as the ever present sky, searched her face for any recognition. Finding none, he bent down and his fingers brushed the scarlet river
“Does Death find you in poor health?” he asked, his hand reaching out to touch her pale blue lips. She swallowed and her eyes connected with his. They were endless and held a tainted sadness that made him wonder why she had not begun to cry.
“No, this is only a majestic end,” she whispered as his fingers trailed down her arm.
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. Did you wish Death upon yourself or was it an accident?” he asked her, his eyes landing on the white rose that remained untouched by the river of scarlet blood.
“Death has come for me in its own way, kind sir, as I have done wrong and this will provide a justice for my wrongs.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes, and I am proud to have been given a justified death,” she whispered, her fingers swirling around in a puddle of blood by her hand.
To him, she seemed crazy, ill-driven, with an honest soul. If she welcomed Death’s cold embrace, who was he to call her a fool or ask her to remain still so that he could help her.
“Do you believe in Angels?” she asked her face suddenly calm; her eyes dull.
“It matters not what I believe.” he muttered, tears building in his eyes with a sadness that should not have been. She was a stranger, he knew her not, so why did he weep? Why did her simple question send tears to his eyes? He knew not that answer. She smiled, making him weep harder.
“It matters to me. Do you?” She asked him again looking for something in the sky.
“I do Madam,” he whispered taking the hand nearest to him. He pressed it gently against his cheek as if that would hold her there.
Her eyes grew still, then she murmured, “I must tell you then…”
“They walk among us. Their beauty is clearer than the sky on a cloudless day and when they sing, your heart stops, only to race forward in a frantic beat.”
“I don’t understand.” The boy whispered, suddenly afraid.
She looked to him. “You are an Angel.” She murmured and then she was gone. Her eyes never opened again or shimmered with any glimmer of life. She was dead.

The boy sat in the street for a moment, overcome with the grief for this perfect stranger. Yet somehow she knew his secret and as he reached back to touch the place where his wings were hidden, the rose turned from white to red. The boy picked it up and inspected the petals, with tears in his eyes. “A Blood Red rose.” He muttered. He flew away, leaving the girl to lie in the scarlet river, as sirens began to wail in grief at loosing something that they would soon find anyway.

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