Empty

The air in the field is inviting and full of scents, scents that I have come to love. The humidity is easily noticeable and the dampness of my clothes is a keen indication. The sky is bright but dark at the same time as the ominous clouds move in from the horizon in the east engulfing the sky like milk poured in water. The wind whips small debris across my bare arms and combined with the chilled feeling of the wind, causes goose bumps on my skin. The wind moves the lush grass in the field to sway and flow as an ocean of green with the leaves swirling around acting as fish leaping from water. Amidst this field is an ancient grove of black and gnarled trees, twisting about and hugging one another to make a dark canopy over the grove. I walk towards the secluded grove, hoping to embrace its shelter before the music starts.

The sun is but thin slabs of light through the clouds now, and the wind has grown a voice in its fury. The grass nearly lies flat, bowing to the might of the wind as it sweeps across the land. The air is thick with moisture, the taste of rain seeping onto my tongue as I breathe. The wind does not hinder my walk to the grove; it seems to avoid me, as if waiting for the opportune moment, taunting me as it ruffles my shorts. There is a sound of thunder, deep and intimidating. It ripples through the ground where I can feel it under my bare feet as the pebbles and sand bounce over and on them, and the sensation hastens my walk to the grove. I look to the sky where the sun should be setting, the clouds turning a brown shade as the sunset endeavors to show through them.

The rain falls as I near the grove, intensifying the closer I get. The drops hit my skin like needles, but it is painless, and I smile as my clothes darken with moisture and the water drips in front of my face from my hair. The thunder is almost ceaseless in its powerful bellows, and the lighting joins with splitting, blinding light in the symphony of the storm. I stop before the entrance of the grove and turn about to gaze upon the violent beauty. The field is engulfed in a dull light from the dim sunset, creating an unnatural contrast from the shadowy clouds above. The grass is a vicious sea of knives, whipping back and forth, and pieces flying about as they are ripped from the ground by the wind. A jagged shaft of electricity strikes the ground near the grove followed by a skull splitting crack of thunder that deafens me as it knocks me off my feet. I scramble to the grove in awe and fear nearly hitting a broken branch as I stand and walk in.

I stand in the small grove, feeling the dry soil squirm between my feet. I dust off what I can from my wet clothes as I walk around inside the grove. I feel safe here as the storm is absent in this shelter, the wind cannot reach me. The grove is small and nearly void of life save the trees that surround it. In the center of the grove is a stump of what used to be a great towering tree, and in the middle of this stump is a single flower. It is a rose. A single small rose with thorns along its stem and colorless petals. The petals of the rose are as glass, clear and empty of imperfections. I walk up to the stump and lean over towards the rose, reaching out to stroke one of the petals. My finger makes contact with what I think is velvet, then one of the transparent petals breaks off and falls onto the stump. I hear the trees around me groan and creak in response to the violation of the rose, a sense of anger filling the air.

The wind outside in the storm changes direction and begins to fill the grove with rushing air. I turn and face the entrance to confront the wind and its power. The broken branch by the entrance of the grove breaks off into a serrated piece and is propelled into the grove by the wind. I turn away from the wind to avoid the branch, but the wind is unmerciful. The sharp edge of the branch slices across my neck, ripping away the flesh and opening my blood vessels to the air. I recoil and stumble to lean on the stump for support. My breath comes in bubbling gasps as the dark viscous fluid that is my life pours out onto the stump. My arms weaken and I fall to the ground turning to my back. I stare out to the storm from the entrance of the grove to see two bolts of lightning collide in the sky and crash into the ground. My eyes keep staring, never blinking, not anymore.

The storm calms its fury, turning into a light drizzle. The rose is no longer colorless, no longer unique from other roses. It drips with red.