The Black Rose | Short Story

Midnight fog dimmed the moon, while Ava’s eyes were glued to the washing machine as the motion of the rotating fans shadowed the machine rhythmically. Meanwhile, the washer spun and filled with slurping noise, tossing and flipping her clothes as she folded clothes from an earlier load. The laundry attendant struggled walking toward Ava as each step was a painful lump; a trembling, cracked voice flowed into words once the attendant reached her.

“Hey, I will be back. I’m locking the doors like I did last time,” the laundry attendant said. “It will take me an hour from the store to back due to my-”

The laundry attendant gawked at the throbbing, swelling left leg.

Ava’s chapped lips curved into a gentle smile. “Okay, and thank you for letting me do last-minute laundry before my morning classes. I appreciate it.”

“No problem, dear.”

〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰

The clock on the wall struck one; Ava had just finished folding half of a previous load and then shifted over into her basket. When centered back to continue the other half, her eyebrows squished together, and her head jerked lightly to the appearance of a black rose: petals pure black as ink, and the stem covered with thorns prickly as a barbed-wire sprung up onto the counter. Ava reverted to her basket and yanked out a folded, thick dry towel to remove the black rose. But once wrapped around: a sharpened thorn slipped through the thickness of the fabric and pierced deeply into her right thumb. Ava flinched. Immediately, she shoved the injured thumb into her mouth, a snap, and then a buzzer set off from the washer; she steadily removed her thumb from her mouth, leaving a bitter taste.

Her eyes widened when she discovered her thumb resembled a nasty throbbing and enlarged cherry-red color. She examined around for her cell phone; for a moment, she then detected it on the floor, next to a candy wrapper. Bent down carefully, she clutched the table before reaching for her phone. Ava saw doubles and briefly struggled with her right-hand fingertips as she slid it outward.

She picked it up and pressed power on the side — nothing.

A harsh sigh occurred from Ava’s mouth, then slammed the phone onto the table. Her left hand snatched the same towel, swept the black rose off the counter, and took a grip of the laundry cart, squeaking across the tile floor and over to the washer. Ava continued with her left hand and yanked the door as the suction seal popped open and pivoted her with the mist of warm flowery fabric softener scent — lavender.

Ava winced every other moment to the consistent throbbing of her thumb and hadn’t glanced upon it since the washer stopped, but once she returned to the folding station. Ava peeked at how bad the thumb had gotten at this point.

Her chest tightened and skipped a beat, witnessing her right-hand encounter a spread of an unknown infection that spread black and out like veins passing her hand and now building up to her arm.

The feeling of her right fingertips becoming numb, then the hand, and finally, the whole right arm. Her body became unbalanced and began to sway, tilt toward the right. Where Ava braced for the laundry cart as it slid along with the wheels. Gliding across the tiles created a screeching unpleasant ear-splitting noise, cruising back to the washer machines. One of the wheels got stuck between two tiles that put a halt on the cart — throwing her body as it crashed upon the washer machine door and then fell onto her back on the floor.

The tightened of her chest pulsing: more complex and faster, and the overflowing bitter taste of her blood formed inside her mouth got her gasping for air. Ava slowly turned her head over to the reflection of the washer machine door, a fresh breeze brushed against the back of her head, and the gasping turned violently, spattered the door with blood. Ava faced the ceiling, watching the fan circling right before those black veins crept past her and eliminated her sight with darkness.