This week’s Tuesday Trying i decided to use a rose (at the suggestion of a friend) and there was something about this photograph, by Tanalee Youngblood, that spoke to me. So the rules for today are to mention the roses, and to focus on description through emotional response (which was the topic of a writerly discussion I followed today). It’s a short one, but I quite like it. Hope you enjoy.
The room was too small to pace properly in. White walls tried for a chill calm but only served to scrape nails down her nerves.
He should have been back by now.
She wiped her palms on her pants and then shook them, a frown twisting her brow. Habit. She’d not sweated in over a century. Her jaw clenched, fangs pushing against her lips in a harsh reminder. She took a breath. Another habit. Marching across the room, heels clicking on cold tomblike marble, she threw herself on to the sofa.
Time pulsed on, counted in heartbeats. She could hear them when she listened.
Her fingers crept out and traced over that awful gold edging that she’d raised her brows at and he’d simply shrugged and laughed, the joy of it a bright sound that shooed away her doubts. The scarlet of her nails trailed like blood across the white fabric and she curled them back under her hands.
There had been so much blood that last time.
No. Think of his laugh instead. That was better.
Her eyes dragged, unwillingly, trepidation in every blink, to the roses in the ceramic pot by the back window. The dusky pink was the only colour apart from her deep raven black. She stood out against the white, a challenge, a statement. Take me as I am, damn it. And he had.
Petals dropped. They didn’t fall fast, and they didn’t fall together. Every so often, in time with the heartbeat that she heard in her waking dreams, one would tear itself away, breaking, giving up, forsaking. Her eyes fixed unblinkingly on a petal as it floated, ruffled and brown at the edges, dying, down to join the rest of them on the floor.
He should be back by now.