I Know the Color of the Roses

Hate is a lot like love, an obsession that begs to unravel even the sanest of minds. It pulls at the darkest parts that make us human, and denies us restraint. 

Though the room was a sea of dancing white accompanied by a chorus of silvers and golds, the edges of my vision were tinged with red. Black crept in like a caress, holding her in its empty hands. Violins seemed to cease, suspended mid-note. The world began to tunnel. The floor fell away—the ceiling, beneath my feet. Chandeliers stood upright, like towers around me. Her laugh carried like the plague and rang like warning bells. I had not forgotten the timbre of her voice. It was as fresh as a night terror in my head.

My hands, steadier than my mind, plucked a rose petal with delicate precision, but my eyes did not depart to trace its fall from grace. My thoughts raced, my heart beat in crescendo, but my face, a cool mask of statuesque pleasantry as her eyes met mine. I smiled and looked away. Another flower petal followed the first to the ceiling below me.

I loathed her with all my being, the way she made me loathe myself. Pluck. Pluck. Pluck. A fistful of rose petals rained down around me. I resented her power. Pluck. For she was the orchestra, and I, the puppet dancing to her music. Pluck. The last rose petal drifted down to the sea of yellow I had created at my feet. This addiction, this obsession… I fear it was consuming me from the inside out. I knew then, I had completely and utterly fallen in loathe.