Roses
“Do you like the roses?”
She spun around, but there was no
one there. A shiver ran down her spine, and she turned back to her work.
“Do you like the roses?”
She jerked her head around again,
but still there was no one there. She reached a hand into her pocket, nervously
counting, but nothing was amiss. She turned back to her work.
“Do you like the roses?”
She started to turn her head, but
the voice spoke again.
“Don’t turn around, just stay
like you are. Do you like the roses?”
She reached her hand back into
her pocket.
“You don’t need to count.”
Another shiver ran down her
spine. She opened her mouth hesitantly, then shut it again.
“Do you like the roses?”
“What roses?”
“Mine.”
“I don’t see any roses.”
“Of course you can’t see them.”
“Are they invisible, like you?”
Laughter.
“No.”
“Then where are they?”
“Come with me.”
“How can I follow you if I can’t
see you?”
“Follow my voice.”
She got up from the table, closed
her book, and walked towards the voice.
“Keep coming, out the door.”
She walked slowly, right hand
still in her pocket, left hand nervously clutching her book.
She reached the door and walked
through it.
“Do you like the roses?”
“I’m on a busy street. There are
no roses here.”
“Follow me.”
More laughter, from her right.
She turned and followed it.
The laughter bounced in front of
her, until she reached a side alley, a nasty dark place with a horrible stench.
“Do you like the roses?”
“There are no roses here.”
A man sleeping next to a dumpster
in the alley heard her and lifted his head, giving her a quizzical look.
“Sorry, I’m looking for roses.”
“Aren’t we all?”
His face was broken, exhausted.
She walked over to him.
“Do you not have anywhere else to
sleep?”
“Nowhere?”
“And nothing to eat?”
“Nothing.”
“Come.”
She stretched out her hand and
offered it to the stranger, hoisting him to his feet.
She turned, leading him out onto
the main street, then back to the café where she had been sitting before. When
they entered, the lone waiter stared.
“He’s with me.”
She led the man to a table, and
they sat down.
“What do you want to eat?”
“I can’t accept this.”
“What do you want to eat?”
He pointed out the cheapest item
on the menu.
“Do you have steak?”
“Yes.”
“Bring the man steak.”
“What cut?”
“The finest you have.”
“And for you?”
“Nothing, I already ate.”
The waiter nodded and walked
away. The man’s eyes filled with tears.
“Why are you doing this?”
“I was trying to find the roses.”
“There are no roses in the city.”
“I know, but there must be.”
“No, we destroyed them. The roses
cannot grow here.”
“Even with all this, there must
be somewhere they can take root.”
“Nowhere.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“I destroyed all the roses.”
“What do you mean?”
The man hesitated, his eyes growing
deeper.
“When I was little, my mother had
a beautiful rose garden. She had it before I was born. But I cried and I cried,
and she abandoned the garden. She cared for me, and the roses died. I killed
the roses.”
The steak came, and she sat
thoughtfully while he ate. If the roses were dead, who was to blame? Surely his
mother could have tended both.
“No, she had to choose.”
“Then the roses had to die.”
“Do you like the roses?”
“There are no roses here.”
The man looked up at her. She
hadn’t realized she was speaking aloud.
“No, I killed the roses.”
The man finished his steak, and
she paid. She took him by the hand once more and led him down the street to a
hotel.
She took him inside the hotel and
paid for a room for the night. As the desk clerk was finding his key on the
rack, she pressed a $50 bill into his hand.
“It’s not much, but it’s all I
know to do.”
“It’s too much for a killer of
roses.”
She left him there, in that
hotel, and wandered back into the street.
“Do you like the roses?”
“There are no roses here. We have
all killed the roses.”
“Follow me.”
The voice bobbed to her left, and
she followed.
“Run!”
She ran, and she saw a child
running, too – a little girl, running into the street, with a car headed
towards her.
Without thinking, she ran after
the child and pulled her to safety.
“Why are you running into the
street?”
“I’m running away.”
“Why? What’s so bad at home?”
“I killed the roses.”
“What do you mean?”
“I broke a vase, and now the
roses will die.”
“Come, let’s get you home. Where
do you live?”
The child pointed at a house. She
took the girl’s hand and led her to the front door.
“Your child ran into street.”
“Why?”
“I killed the roses.”
“I would rather have you than the
roses.”
She left the child with her mother
and wandered back to the main street again.
“Do you like the roses?”
“The roses are all dead. We have
killed them, even if they are not missed.”
“Follow me.”
The voice rushed ahead of her,
following a familiar route.
Home.
She tiptoed through the door,
almost afraid of what she would find.
“In here.”
The voice entered her bedroom.
She followed it and found herself
a moment later facing the mirror.
“Do you like the roses?”
And finally she saw them. The
roses. They were blooming out of her chest, rooted in her heart, the most
beautiful roses she had ever seen.
“Yes, I love the roses.”
But the voice had gone. She
turned around, expecting to find it, but no one was there. She turned back to
the mirror, but the roses were gone.
She pulled the bottle out of her
pocket and dumped the contents on the dresser. She counted frantically.
She had missed her morning dose.
I'm praying for you!
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