Rose of Death

I took a red crumbling rose in my hands and I put it up to my nose. It was a sickly mix of violet, blood, and black ink. I crumbled the rose in my hand and felt the black ink ooze between my fingers before I let the rose petals fall to the ground.

My bare feet took me out onto the balcony and lifted my head towards the dark sky. I could smell the breeze rushing past my face. It carried the interesting fragrance of dead grass, and tree bark through the air. Dead branches scattered on the grass and I could smell fresh blood coming from the bodies down below. As I walked down the balcony stone stairs, my ripped dress dragged on the stone behind me and I pushed my ragged hair behind my ears. I walked on the dead grass and over the dead bodies, stepping my bare feet on each blade pierced stomach in my way. I made my way to one man who was still breathing. He begged, begged for mercy. I showed no mercy, I took a dagger out of my belt and stabbed him in his heart. His lips were still forming the word ‘please’ when his face went dark and he was gone.

We had won the battle, but I was not done. All of my list had been checked off, except for one line. I took the dagger out of the man’s chest and held it horizontal, the tip of the blade touching in between my breasts. I breathed a deep breath and plunged the dagger into my flesh. A loud gasp escaped my lips before I crumpled to the ground, just another fallen soldier in battle.