Scarlet Death

Each day it flourished anew, fresh blooms bursting forth in brilliant hues of sinful scarlet. If the rose bush thrived, she knew her true love lived and breathed and waited for her somewhere in the world. Smiling, she would lovingly stroke the sun-warmed petals, the heat of silky desire traveling through her fingertips. She knew not who he was, but she dreamt of the day when she would finally meet him, when her eyes could rest on his countenance, when the hardened contours of his hand would fit the curves of hers, a tailor-made pattern of planes and lengths scaled to perfection.

But the day dawned when sunlight no longer shone through the clear glass panes. In darkness she floated to the window, despair raging in her veins as her gaze fell to the blossoms, their color like the stain of crimson blood against the white window frame.
As the flowers began to fade so did the hope that she might ever meet him. The tears began to spill unheeded as she scooped up the vase, holding it close to her heart as she hurried to the one place she felt completely safe.

Her mother opened the door, the winter wind whipping around them like daggers. But at the stricken look on her mother's face she ceased to feel anything except the empty numbness in the place her heart used to be. She was pierced with panic; she didn't want to look at the glass vase she clenched tightly with her fingers. And yet, she knew without looking what she would see.
The flowers were all dead.
Tears streamed rivers down her cheeks. A black heaviness settled on her chest.
She couldn't breath as she struggled from her mother's grasp and ran to the woods where she fell prostrate and wept, wailing her grief in screams and ragged sobs, her fingers digging into the dirt and brown leaves cradling her limp body until she could cry no more tears.

When I awoke my cheeks were wet and the heaviness in my chest were slow to subside.
It felt so completely real.