Roses

Sobs, cries that leave her chest, sweet aggression, and the love she described in her daughter's eyes takes the form of fear. She knelt and lied. She would breathe, act, choke, and cry. The love in her heart is greater than the horrors going on inside her head. Her daughter will give up on her – she will lower her lips to other, female ones. She will cut her skin. She will forever call it love, while forgetting or just simply not giving it much attention, to avoid pain that love must not hurt.

Slowly sliding the blade across her sun-darkened skin, he watches the red roses sprout. It's not a metaphor, she really sees them, whole – stem, leaves, a few thorns, and beautiful, bright petals. She can't look at herself, she doesn't know how. She sees someone; it breathes and moves, but it's a stranger, every time. It is a face that cannot be remembered, a face that has expressions so ordinary, so unremarkable – that face is not worth remembering. She recognizes only her hands, only on that inconspicuous person that makes her indifferent. It evokes an emotion that the rest of her body does not produce. Only terror that melts into pity for those who look down. These are the hands on which roses grow, roses planted by another man, by force. He didn't just create roses. He created her too. Her father. Only he never cried. She thought the roses would hurt him. Let me tell you a story about roses. It is a plant that belongs to the beautiful kind, the one that ladies and their daughters keep on their nightstands. Roses must be planted with good will, never by force. Roses that have been brought into the world by force have a hideous beauty. That beauty is sad, very sad. You can see the form of the petals characteristic of the plant, but you can't see their perfect relationship and harmony. Those roses are dirty, insignificant, and completely identical to each other. It is strange that such a sorrowful thing did not touch him. I have never seen a man with such a dry heart.