Yellow Rose

Dinner was silent that day. On the small table barely big enough for two people, sat leftover macaroni and hastily made salad with the silverware scattered over the white tablecloth. Over in the sink dishes were plied up and crumpled newspapers lay on the floor. Sadness had swept through the small house and left despair and emptiness in its path. Sadness was causing the suffocating silence present everywhere, and the sense of affection usually felt between a mother and her son was buried in the course of events.
         The mother stared at her plate for a long time and finally brought a piece of lettuce to her mouth. She chewed slowly while new tears sprang into her eyes. She slowly placed her fork down and tore her eyes away from her food to gaze around the kitchen. Her eyes shifted over the various appliances in the kitchen until she found a small patch of wallpaper to concentrate on. Tears started to stream down her cheeks as she forced herself to look at the floor.
         The broken remains of a crystal flower vase lay on the floor, its fine shards scattered. The pieces reflected light from their place in a pool of water. White carnations were strewed in the water, and three distinct drops of blood stained the petals of the pure carnations. When she looked at the drops of blood, the mother pushed on the bandages around her finger. She winced at the sharp pain; an uncanny reminder of the reality she lived in. A small clink came from the other side of the table, but the mother didn’t notice. Her gaze had shifted back to her food. 
         The little boy slammed the glass down onto the table. In the uncomfortable silence he started to fidget and began to kick his legs around in the air. Nothing he did attracted the attention of his mother, and he sadly turned back to his food. He followed a particular patter; macaroni were eaten two at a time and the salad piece by piece. Despite his annoyance the boy understood more or less what had happened. He had pieced together the truth from rumors and distant memories.
         A long time ago he had both a mother and a father. The crystal vase was a beautiful expensive gift to his mother. The little boy doesn’t remember his father anymore than a tall, dark haired man with maybe a beard. The gift must have been a sign of true love because people don’t give expensive presents unless they love someone. The vase was beautiful, a present of love.
Still very long ago, sometime after his fifth birthday, his father had died. No one would say much about that; it must have been something awful. Maybe a stabbing or some kind of bloody death, but whatever had happened he was sure his father had died heroically. But when police officer came, his mother had cried, just like now.
The rest was plain. His mother always liked the beautiful vase, and had a special place for it. The little boy was not allowed to touch it or the white carnations that were always present. A piece of glass wasn’t very lovable, but she truly cared for it.
Despite all her care the vase lay in pieces on the kitchen floor. He hadn’t broken it, he never touched it, and never even thought of that. The wind must have done it. Whoever or whatever had dropped it made him mad; his mother was unhappy because of it.
As soon as dinner was over, the little boy did his chores. Even after he had cleared the table and washed the dishes, his mother still did pay him any attention. Outside the sun was setting and it was time for bed. Normally his mother would read him a book, one full of dragons and castles, but not tonight. His mother headed straight to her room and turned out the light, leaving the little boy to climb into his bed and try to tuck himself in. He quickly realized it was impossible and turned out the light. Hopefully tomorrow would be better.
But the little boy couldn’t sleep. He tossed and turned expecting the bad men that killed his father to appear and kill him as well. While drifting off into sleep, he remembered something from a long time ago. Four or five years ago when his mother was very sad, he had run into the forest seeking solace. After walking for the better part of the day, he came across a beautiful flower. A beautiful flower… that was what he remembered. He didn’t remember where it was but, he knew for certain it would make his mother happy.
The next morning the boy woke up at sunrise, long before his mother. He quietly changed into outdoor clothes, tied his shoes and crept outside. His backyard opened up into a beautiful forest, peaceful and serene. There were no neighbors for miles around leaving the entire forest for himself. He quickly found his special path completely overgrown with weeds and small shrubs. Glancing back at his house, he ducked under a tree branch and started down the path.
In the forest, tall trees were interspersed with shrubs and twigs. Patches of dark green moss covered the tree trunks and a multitude of mushrooms grew in the soft dirt. The little boy pulled up one of the numerous weeds that grew on the dirt path. He twirled it in his fingers, took a deep breath and blew the seeds into the wind.
The rising sun awakened the forest and brought it to life. Small sounds were audible as small animals awoke and rustled around in the shrubs. It was early spring so flowers were blooming and leaves were slowly opening up on the trees. The little boy carefully stepped over a patch of poison ivy and made his way down the path.
The leaves filtered the sunlight as patches of light fell to the ground. A long time ago the boy visited the forest frequently and after years he slowly began to remember. He remembered how he almost stepped on a hive of wasps and the spider webs that stretched across the path. He recalled the variety of animals; deer, fawns, insects, and birds that lived in the forest. He continued down the path accompanied by the buzz of insects and rustle of leaves. Occasionally he stopped along the way, looking at plants covered with berries and fruit.
The boy soon reached a big split tree. The tree branched out from a center of charred black wood where lightened had struck it. The boy remembered something about this tree, but the path abruptly ended here. He was at a loss, where should he go? To continue his search he would be forced to trek his way through the forest. He pushed his way through bushes and branches watching his step. The supple branches whipped back at him and scraped against his arms. But he had not been pushing his way through for long when he came across another path. This path was extremely rocky and overgrown from many years of disuse. He continued up the path gazing on ahead and hoping to find something. In his eagerness he did not notice a small creek until the water seeped into his shoes. The boy barely paused and continued. He stepped over a fallen tree and walked on leaving wet shoeprints in his wake.
A little further up the road the boy came across something extraordinary. The most beautiful flawless rose he had ever seen was growing in a small clearing up ahead. The petals were a rich yellow color with soft tinges of orange at the ends. They had just opened up, curling out gently from the center. This wild rose blooming in the forest was unlike any rose bred to perfection. The flower evoked a deep sense of beauty. Glancing down the stem the boy saw savage thorns, beautiful and deadly. The thorns were of a dark blood red hue and their sharp points glinted in the sunlight.
The little boy approached the rose cautiously. He gazed into the flower and knew that he had found it, the one rose that would make his mother happy. Nothing would stop him from bringing the rose to his mother.
The boy reached to pluck the rose from the bush but instead he stabbed himself with a thorn.  The thorn drew blood which streamed quickly down his hand. He applied pressure to the wound and looked back at the thorns. They were spread out on the stem and knife sharp. He reached out again and grabbed the stem while avoiding the sharp thorns. Then he twisted and bent the stem until the rose broke free and the green wick was exposed on one end.
The boy turned away from the clearing and hurried home anxious to get the flower to his mother. He hurried down the path only thinking of the joy the rose would bring. He started to run but his shoe caught the edge of the fallen fog near the stream. To break his fall he stretched out his hands and landed heavily on them. He felt a sharp pain and looked down to see the stem crushed underneath his right hand with a thorn imbedded into the palm of his hand. 
He picked himself up and examined his hand. Blood streamed out of the wound and down his hand splattering on the ground. But pain did not matter, only the rose. He bent down to pick it up from where it lay on the ground. The rose was still perfect as it had been when he first plucked it. Still eager to get home the boy snatched up the rose and started walking back home careful not to trip over anything else.
Soon after he reached the small creek and bent down to glance at his reflection in the water. As soon as he moved a strong gust of wind blew the yellow rose out of his grasp and down into the water. The wound on his hand was still bleeding and before he could do anything three drops of blood fell on the rose. The drops soaked into the petals and left three distinct blood red impressions on the creamy yellow.
As the boy watched in horror the wind picked up again and blew the rose down the strem, further and further away. Between the stones and the wind, the rose was ripped to pieces and individual petals were swept away downstream. All that remained of the yellow rose was a memory and a stream of blood from a wound.
The boy stood near the creek for a little while and stared downstream. His foolish hope of helping his mother was gone, and he sadly started to trudge home. Why did he think it would ever work? He was so sure, so confident and now his hopes were crushed and swept downstream.
The boy made his way back to the main trail and passed the split tree. The forest had lost its magical allure. The trees watched him, no longer young but old and ancient. He passed back through the forest and thought about sitting down to another silent dinner. The day became dreary and dark. He was so ready to leave the forest that he almost looked forward to dinner. But at the edge of the forest he caught sight of the house and realized something was wrong.
The house looked like an abandoned shack. The paint was peeling on the doors and spider webs stretched across the windows. Shingles were missing from the roof and the wood of the house was rotting. When the boy saw the state of house, he started running closer. The closer he came the more dilapidated and worn down the house looked. He ran up and banged on the back door but to no avail. With no luck, he tried to force open the door only to find that it had been boarded up.
A sob got caught in his throat as reality finally hit him. He was the victim of some perverse dream. But it was not a dream, it was a reality. Where was the familiar place he had grown up in? Was all that was left simply a deteriorating house, the only remnants of his life?
The boy ran around to the front of the house where the same terrible neglect was apparent. He pressed his eye against a crack but was distracted by something in the corner of his eye. He looked around and caught sight of two men standing on the side of the road, talking to each other. The boy saw that they were the only people around for away and cautiously approached them.
Where did you come from, asked the men. This house has been deserted for well over twenty years. A crazy old woman deserted it when her son ran away; poor woman she had some bad luck in her life. Her husband deserted her and then her kid ran off. After that, well she went crazy, but God rest her soul now that she’s finally passed away. At last she’s free from all her suffering. Why are we here? Why do you think? We’ve been commissioned to knock this place down, make way for some nice houses, fix up this area a bit.
The boy let the men talk on and on. Hey, you lost or something? Well stay out of the way, we have work to do.
The men turned their backs and resumed their work. The boy took one glance at them and rushed towards the house. He reached the front door and attacked it, using all his might to pry open the front door. He darted in just as the shouts from the two men about unsafe and dangerous reached his ears. The boy kept forward and sped through the house, past the family room into the dining room and towards the kitchen door. He slowed down and paused ready for what was on the other side.
The doors were locked and sealed, but the boy easily forced his way inside. Cobwebs covered every corner of the kitchen. Cabinet door hung on their hinges and the chair coverings had been devoured by moths. The small, worn down table, now chipped and bare, was still in the kitchen. On the table in a spot of light sat the undamaged crystal vase and with the wild yellow rose. The yellow rose’s petals had not aged a day and their beauty lit the room. Distinct and visible on the yellow petals were three drops of blood.