Slowly I'll pull out the hidden box under my bed, still questioning whether or not I should be even thinking about it. It'll emerge decorated in stickers, stamps, photos and other collectibles from those forgotten times I use to want to remember. Inside holds treasures that other's considered trash, varying from pieces of cloth and perfume. But every one of those things, from the box itself to what it contains, means something between me and you. Or at least it use to.
Now it just stabs my already shredded heart and laughs at my soulless body, destroying the little I have left. But even through all of it I still survived. Managed the pain. But what pricks me most is what's taped under the box. Too precious to be decorating the box, yet to vicious to be inside.
Carefully my nails slide underneath the table, they barely avoiding the rose. The tape will curl up, and the rose will fall to the ground, landing gently. As if it were a light feather floating in the wind, instead of a killer reminder of what is dead.
My soft hands picked up the rose gently, but it didn't care, I was pinched fiercely but it's unwelcoming self. Every nerve came alive as blood trickled down, it's warmth the only thing besides cold I've ever felt since the rose was first picked. As blood went out, it seemed as if memories rushed in, pushing tears out, and stealing my air within.
"Why don't you like roses?" His voice called out, bending down as he felt around.
"'Cause they are for the loved, which I've never been." Hurriedly, I picked up his glasses and handed them to him.
"Not yet you haven't," He grinned, grabbing his glasses along with a single rose that was hidden.
Collecting the little of myself that was left, I gasped and shook the memories from my head. The rose no longer pricked nor pinched, instead just wilted since it was half dead. The red of the petals had greatly faded, the tips drooping down, and it's center folding. Yet even as it appearance weakens it's holding on me just strengthens.
Grinning, he held out his hand, daring for me to take it.
"Scared of a little fun?"
Behind him were fields closed off to everyone. It was a farm for picking, but not in the middle of the night. We weren't supposed to be here, but he didn't care. And it's his devilish smirk that made me not care.
"Never!" I laughed, taking it with my free hand, the other squeezing the rose."
Crying out, I dropped the rose, this time it lands with a thud, echoing my hearts sorrow. I can no longer hold nor look at a rose that controls my soul. Quickly I stand up, cup the rose, and throw it out my window.
"Roses are a cliche and unnecessary," He scoffed, snatching it out of my hand. "The only reason I got you one was because I knew it would work."
"I thought you loved me?" I whined, tears forming.
"Love is as meaningless as a rose."
He never loved me and the rose wasn't meant for me. He was just greedy, wanting another heart for his trophy display case. Truly, what does rose do more than prove a horrid statement that's sadly true?