The Fallen Rose (Sample)

The Show Must Go On…
August 7th, 1946
Midnight

Somewhere, deep in the woods, in the dim hall of a mansion, was a lady and gentleman.
The man reached inside his pocket and pulled out a special rose. A rose of rich, plum petals- a feast for the eyes only a special few could partake.
He offered it to the lady. "Care for a rose, Lady Capra?" Asked the man, narrowing his eyes through his mask as he awaited her response.
The lady accepted the rose without a second thought. "Why of course. You know I would love that… Vel-huh!" Her voice choked as her sentence was suddenly cut off by a deep, stabbing pain in her chest.
Shakily, she looked down. A dagger had been buried in her breast. She looked back up at the man in utter disbelief. Crimson flowers bloomed from her wound. "V-Ve… wh-wh-why…?" The lady painfully stuttered out, then stumbled backward.
Swiftly, the man caught her with an arm around the waist, and reassured her in an eerily calm whisper. "Do not fear, Lady Capra. For your participation in this performance was no accident. You played an important role only you could fulfill. A most sincere and tragic role."
"To leave behind such a loving family. To relinquish such marvelous talent with your voice. To lose all that you had and ever could have."
A single tear rolled down the woman's cheek. “Truly, tragic.” He brushed the tear away with the back of his hand. "But weep not. For death is life’s most magnificent performance- and you, Lady Capra." With his other hand he removed his mask and whispered in her ear. "You are playing yours wonderfully… That, is why."
Just as the man said this, the lady’s final breath escaped her lips and her eyes dulled, then glazed over. The lady was no more. All it took for a woman's life to be snuffed out was a scarce 48 seconds. Less than a minute.
After a moment of silence, the man leaned back and gazed into her lifeless eyes with a great sense of satisfaction. Such a graceful death. No screaming. No unsightly flailing. No struggle. Just a soft cry, a single tear… and passing.
He closed his eyes and took it all in. Relishing the moment. "Perfect…" Yes, it was all his... No one could take this moment away from him. Not now. Not ever. He would remember it. For all of eternity.
With a light brush of his gloved hand her eyes closed, then laid her to rest on a white sheet. He gathered his gardening tools in a bag then carried her outside into the woods where he would bury her in front of a tree. A place she would nourish the soil and give back to the world one last time before fading away for eternity.

~+~

The man approached a tree he had designated for his disposal, marked with a number he had engraved. #22. Jezebel Capra. He unraveled his tool belt and began his work.
Just overhead, the moon rolled over the trees.
He placed his shovel aside, wiped his forehead, lowered her body in the grave, then began the endeavor of filling it back up. Just as he finished smoothing over the dirt, the moon shone over him. And with a swift movement, he bowed.
For the moon was his spotlight and the stars, his audience. A woman's curtain had fallen… And yet, it would rise again. Then fall again. Over and over. As it had countless times before.
Why? The audience lived for it. Hungered for it. Thirsted for it. Screamed for it. And just like any respectable performer, he would deliver. Time and time again. As many times as they wished.
Still holding his composure, the man slowly rose and whispered. "The show must go on…"