Entwined in This Infinity

11. Roses - Kat

You are not a sucker for roses.

Flowers are fine, you guess, like, there’s no reason to hate flowers. They haven’t done anything to you. However, they are getting real annoying. You don’t hate flowers, but you sure as hell aren’t a fan of them, and whoever is leaving bouquets of roses on your doormat obviously doesn’t know you well at all.

You’re probably supposed to feel some sort of fuzzy glowy feeling of pleasure that a weird dude has you in his sights and is thoughtful enough to put roses at your door each and every day, but this mess has you gritting your teeth in frustrated anger as you stuff yet another goddamn bouquet into the trashcan, wishing death or at least a good slug to the coward’s face.

You get tired of taking the trash out constantly, and your pedantic neighbor chews your ear off after your attempts to leave them to rot in the hallway or thrown out the window. This leaves you shoving the wretched things into your closet, then under your bed, then in the empty top shelf of the cupboard, anywhere that is out of your sight.

It takes a month for you to realize they’re not withering. You glare at the new addition, hoping your fury will ignite it. Is your stalker an enchanter? Yeah, that’s what you need in your life, an enchanter.

They don’t stop coming. You’re forced to start putting them in open spaces that you pass by and see daily. It’s grating. The rage boils over often, and you smash and tear apart the closest victim until it is nothing but pulp smeared on the floor. After, you’ll stare at your bleeding hands, where thorns have cut open your skin. What kind of fool sends a girl flowers with thorns?

“It’s gotta be symbolism for how nice and cuddly you are,” your best friend chortles.

It’s not funny anymore. The ire fades to weariness. How long can this go on?

“C’mon, you weakling! What is this, a mind game? Make your move already!” you shout into the silent apartment.

They’re everywhere you look. You think you’re going to drown.

It’s an enchanter, there’s no other option. But you think this isn’t a pathetic romantic cliché as you’d been theorizing.

It’s a curse.

Your eyes are not red. Your hair is not this straight, not this thin. Your skin is not this smooth, this inhuman smoothness. Your teeth are blunt and square and white, they’re not – they’re not supposed to be fucking thorns.

You’re a monster.

On the one year anniversary, a note is tucked inside the bouquet.

What a beautiful rose you make.