The Last Mile In the Rain
He picked the rose at dusk, just as the sky was beginning to turn deep shades of crimson and orange. Dark clouds roamed, grey and threatening inside, their edges tinged with purple and red. It looked as if the coming night would bring rain, but he doubted it.
The rose had been growing outside his house, on a vine that climbed up a trellis, winding in and out of the crisscrossed holes. He had planted it the year before, during the spring, back when his life had been happy. When he had stood before the empty trellis, with the tiny rosebush at his feet, and her by his side, he would have never thought that a year from then, things would be the way they are now.
The rose itself was large, and coloured deep red, almost black. It had been the largest rose on the vine, so of course he had taken it.
For her, only the best would do. As he cut the rose, he had pricked his thumb on a thorn. A perfect drop of crimson blood had welled up, and he had watched as it slowly ran down his palm and dripped into the dark soil beneath the vine.
Since she had left, the roses had been his life. The roses, and the poetry that he wrote for her. On certain days, he would sit at his desk, perhaps staring out the window as the rain came down, or just watching the waves come rolling in. On those days, his pen would gain a mind of his own, and he would go through dozens of sheets of paper, scrawling out his love for her. On other days, nothing would come. He would just feel an empty...