Why am I holding this dry, withered carcass of a rose? Go ahead, ask. This is my most treasured possession. I will not trade this for all the riches in the world. What is its significance, you might ask? This was the first flower she gave me; ten years, seven months, and twenty-three days ago. I had preserved this safely inside a glass case. Why am I holding this now, eh? To return it to its rightful owner.
I drop it into the grave, on her bloodied body. I spit on the flower, and her and start shoveling.
Word Count: 98
Many thanks to Rochelle Wisoff – Fields for hosting the weekly Friday Fictioneers. Image credit: Marie Gail Stratford
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