Scorching insults, with screeches not too far behind.
I count the seconds, each echo resounding through the darkest pits of my mind. Sanity and insanity, scarlet and white, all of which were etched within the thin sorrow in front of me, in that lowly, pitiful fire burning soothingly. Behind me, brisk, winter gales lay decadent within the noise, melody after sweet, fragile melody.
But even so, just shut them out.
Silken orange wraps delicately around those thorns. Velvet red cups dying petals carefully, bending them against the dark, haunting backdrop. Lowly, cooling embers quietly whisper to its fading bulb it’s last fairytale, one of the old ones that the children had all but forgotten. I lean down, and I touch it, the edges crumbling in my hands.
What is it? Was I sorry that I had to watch you go? Well yes, of course. But if I wanted to leave, it needed to grow. Fade away in time, like everyone else eventually does. Grow up, I keep saying. Just grow up.
No, I’d rather not.
Stay here, at least.
Stay, and watch me rot.
So I turn away. With the last of the flames, that tiny rose finally burns. Petals tucked away in the remnants of a wondrous dream, thorns giving way to least. No, no leaves; that wind ripped those off. The last whispers have died, and now, only the fire remained.
Robin Goodfellow is a lover of horror history and fairytales. Since she was little, she had been enamored with the works of Edgar Allen Poe, Bram Stoker, and Mary Shelley. She currently is study Psychology with a minor in History at the University of North Texas. She has been published in the short-story.me.