White Roses
She remembered.
Some memories won't let go.
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The day was ending for Moira; she'd had an unexpectedly large number of orders from the community's hospital.
A name among them rang.
She knew it, but didn't want to recall.
She was about to pull down
the shutters when---
A knock.
Too long. Too purposeful. Too much like something--
Familiar.
Mozira paused in the middle of packing a bouquet of roses, their thorns pricking her fingers.
A few drops of blood on the white petals---but they unnerved.
The knock was, by all means, ordinary.
A short.
Sharp.
Rap.
But it sounded strange, pressing against her nerves.
Her hand paused between the roses, her fingers twitching.
Too... insistent, resounding in her mind's recesses.
A customer's knock had never felt so--
Expectant, like someone wanted to walk her out
The way he used to...
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Her heart raced as she pressed against the petals laced with her own blood.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
The knock resounded in her chest.
She gazed out of the peephole.
A pair of broad shoulders.
Like his were.
Her eyes fell on the bouquet.
His--for her.
She seemed to hear his laugh from beyond the door.
His chuckle--
Low.
Deep.
One that she wanted so much to hear.
The smell of white roses teased her nostrils.
The games they played.
How he gave her a white rose every time she won one of their little races.
Every time she cried.
She peeped again.
White roses, catching the sunlight.
Surreal.
Beautiful.
Their scent....and then his hand. Warm.
His.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
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Moira cracked the door open further.
The figure brushed past the doorframe, hands lingering on hers---
For a moment.
His fingers used to cover hers--
Like this.
Soft.
Gentle.
Warm.
Her pulse quickened---she remembered.
Needed.
Then....she stepped back.
A hand---one she knew--stayed on a rose.
She could see a half-smile on his face--not clearly.
But she recalled.
How he used to take her to her favourite restaurant---
Even when he preferred Japanese.
His soft voice as he spoke to her mum---
Sick in bed.
Her last hours.
Soft.
Comforting.
But...
The car.
Headlights, too bright.
The crash.
The gravestones---too grey.
Too bleak.
White roses, laid on the grave bed.
Like the ones he had given her.
Her vision blurred.
She needed.
Wanted.
The scent of white roses filled the room.
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The autumn wind caressed her cheek--ever gentle.
The smell of his sweat on his scarf--when he'd drape it over her neck to stem the chill.
He'd tuck a white rose behind her ear--she'd giggle and blush, a grown woman caught in her girlhood.
His laughter--comforting, low--at her blush.
That laugh. Unmistakeable. Low. Sonorous.
Echoing--beyond the door.
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She recalled their last tiff.
Over a spilled cup of tea.
Over nothing and everything at once.
His brow furrowed.
Her cheeks flushed.
Words that seemed sharp, but his eyes—soft.
And then…he laughed.
A low, teasing sound.
Her own lips curved.
They’d kissed it away.
White roses had rested on the counter then,
petals brushing her hand as he went to fetch her coat.
The memory lingered like a whisper.
And now, at the door, she saw them again—
Waiting.
Warm.
Soft.
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She recalled their last tiff---
Over a cup of tea that he'd knocked over.
Over something minor...and major at once.
Furrowed lines on his brow.
Herself, with flushed cheeks.
The words seemed piercing, but his blue eyes--laughing. Genial. Soft.
Then he--laughed.
A bassy, gentle monotone.
She pursed her lips, and they kissed it aside.
White roses had sat in a vase on the coffee table, their soft petals caressing her hand as she fetched her coat.
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She held the white rose bouquet---an extra second.
Too long.
His hand still felt...warm.
The way...
She teared. Then straightened herself
She still had to meet that order.
But she still wanted to hold his roses.
Somehow.
A white rose bathed in the sunlight---
Warm.
Waiting.
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Original story by Michelle Liew Tsui-Lin.
For Vocal's A Knock At The Door Challenge
About the Creator
Michelle Liew Tsui-Lin
Hi, i am an English Language teacher cum freelance writer with a taste for pets, prose and poetry. When I'm not writing my heart out, I'm playing with my three dogs, Zorra, Cloudy and Snowball.
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Comments (4)
This is so sad but also carries this note of danger all the way through, like she's really so much at risk from her own mind.
My heart broke so much for her. Loved your story!
Simply beautiful in both imagery and the way you convey grief in the saddest but most hopeful of ways. Great work.
Well-wrought, Michelle! The poetic cadence of the (p)rose really draws out the theme!