Dyed in Blood
(A short story)
They say a man's intentions is shown by the color of the flowers he gives. Pink means your bashful but it represents your romance and prosperity, they say if its red it is the personification of love, romance, beauty and perfection. But for me nothing suits you better than white, my pure and clean intentions, my love as white and marvelous as the clouds in the skies and as bright as the sun, clean and pure no patches nor dirt.
Do you remember? When we were young I always pick the white roses in the alley of our yard and our parents would always scold me and you, but I do it every single day just so I can give it to you. It was your favorite then. I could see how bright you smile and how your eyelids flatter like the wings of a butterfly and my heart would beat as such.
But then he came and brought his red-thorny roses with him, you stopped liking my hand picked flowers and instead grovel with his. He brings you roses every single day just like I did, he smiles at you just like how much I did, his heart beats for you just like mine did, but he makes you smile more than I did, and you look at him dearly more than to me you did, and I know you heart beats for him so much more than before to me your heart did.
In my frustration I cut myself and squished my palms to dye my white roses red. I thought it'll make you happy, it'll make you like me but instead you look at me with dread. It was the first, it is not the flowers whose dyed in red, it was me. Then there I was, nothing to do but watch as you both lived happily but I never bore hatred nor guilt, though maybe not to you but myself. The infinite number of stars cannot dim how you shine with him. But that was just the start, as day passes by you go dimmer and dimmer and your face sadder and sadder, he kissed other women at your face, he slaps you with his hands bind in chains, and punches you 'till you dull your gaze. Then you can no more see me, because now you're blind and you can now not see how I weeped for you stupidly, now it's not me whose dyed in red, it was you soaked in blood, in tears you shed.
You refused me, you slapped me in the face. I tried to make you mine but you said stay away I'm fine. I hurted him like she hurted you 'till he grovel in my feet just like how you grovel in his flowers the first time you meet, and I thought my heart is already broken but you had to grind it into dust. When you said you still love him and I should leave, I must. I left the town and a year have passed, I returned to the village and in the darkest day of my life there were you, my love I found. Breathless, maggots in your chest, termites in your flesh, a week since the day you died killed by the man you truly loved. I swore to find him and kill him when found, for I can not bear the chains in your neck, the cuffs in your feet and your missing eye in your beautiful head. But even in death you protect him, a letter in the floor written in blood left by you it seems, that spells you love him to never harm him in actions, in my thoughts, or even in dreams. I held you as a storm hinges outside and as my patched heart ruptures from the inside, as I scream and shout with rains in my eyes overflowing, my voice and body cracks and shakes, this was the day I truly break. This time it was not the flowers whose dyed in red, nor you, nor me, it was we. As I held your dead body against mine passionately. You are dyed in red together with me, so maybe with my heavy heart, this time, we could be.