THE BLACK ROSE

Heres the story, just as I promised:


He stared blankly down the sight of his rifle at a deer grazing not ten feet ahead he was suddenly reminded of his wife. Not that she had ever been unknowingly targeted (atleast not to his knowledge) and definately not that he wanted to shoot her (atleast not all the time). No, it was
the deer itself that held her image, its dark and knowing eyes, it graceful shape and even her likelihood to eat from the ground.

At first he savoured this vision of her while holding his rifle to his shoulder, awaiting the perfect moment to shoot. But when that moment came he knew that with such a vivid image in his mind
he couldn't handle pulling the trigger.

As the rifle fell to his side it brushed slightly against the branch of a pine tree. The startled animal, know noticing the hunter's presence bolted into the towering forest. Leaving nothing but a single memory of its presence behind.

The hunter whispered a curse into the bitter cold of the winter as a slight mist floated from the crack of his mouth. He thought of sticking around for a while, thought of catching something smaller so that his venture wouldn't seem wasted but he knew he couldn't. With such a vibrant image in his mind how could he consciously shoot anything? He laughed aloud at how strange his thoughts had become and turned toward home.

His boots crunched heavily in the tightly packed snow sending a slight echoe into the sky above. Soon the meandering hunter found his way to a path which, after many twists, turns and forks, lead him to his ramshackle truck parked snugly within the pathway, sheilding it from the snow that had been falling earlier in the evening.

He climbed clumsily into the rusted door of his one navy blue ford, now a mess of rusted metal and scratched paint, barely recognizable to even the most sharp of eyes. Soon would be the time to remove the rusted pile from the face of the earth. But knowing that this had been his first vehicle he had stubbornly held onto it for five years too many.

As the truck strained to start many loud curses flew from the mouth of the stubborn hunter. once the broken heap began to roll from the snowy pathway a victorious smile tore across the hunters lips. The bumbling rustbucked tottered along the bumpy dirt road creaking loudly as it went. The road of dirt connected to the highway which after an hour (usually two but traffic was extra thin) he took an exit toward home.

But as he travelled across the paved (but much too thin) road toward home the car ahead of him screeched suddenly to a halt and as he slammed on the brakes a terrible scream of pain and extreme age roared from the brakes of his truck. Many loud and ferocious curses fell into the air at that moment, from both the hunter and the driver ahead of him. Soon a deer trotted calmly away from the front of the the line of cars. The hunter stared thoughtfully at the deer, so very much alike the one he had targeted earlier he wondered whether it truly was the same animal.

He drove on for barely three minutes where he found the driveway leading to the home he shared with his beautiful wife. As he parked the truck carefully behind the house (hiding it from the neighbors as was his wife's command) he wondered what his wife would think about him returning home early with an empty truck. He then reminded himself of the countless other occasions when the same thing had happened and forgot all about his worries. The thought of his wife being angry for such a petty reason floated from his mind like a feather in the wind.

As the door of his home Slammed behind him the smell of cooking spaghetti sauce rose into his nostrils and he fell into a trance of hunger. He had forgotten to eat the lunch he had packed for hunting because of the appearance of the deer and now that descision was coming back to haunt him.

"A little early, aren't you?" His wife called from the kitchen, seemingly confused. How could she be blamed her husband had told her he'd be home three hours later.

"Nothin' around. No point in staying," he lied, knowing how easily his story of seeing her resemblance in a deer could be taken in the wrong way.

"Makin' food, " she called, waving a wooden spoon in the air showcasing what he already knew. Then she ordered, "Come in and help."

The hunter strode obediantly to the kitchen, sure to drop his winter coat and boots at the door.
His rifle still lay in the passenger seat of his trusty, rusty ford.

After a short while of adding and sampling the sauce was finished and the couple stood victorious. They then began working on a chocolate desert so decadent I dare not mention it for fear of invoking your hunger.

"Try some," the Hunter's wife told him while raising the wooden spoon which now held a sample of the finished spaghetti sauce. Her husband nodded his head and waited greedily for the sauce to find its way to his stomach. The spicy mixture floated within the clumsy fingers of the wife, slowly toward the mouth of her husband. On its way droplets of various sizes fell to the ground, including a piece of mincemeat and a small mushroom. The taste of the sauce was highly exaggerated by pleased mumbling sounds rolling from the throat of the hunter.

The wife then threw the spoon into the pot and dropped to her knees so that she could recover
as much sauce as she could. She then ate greedily the sauce that she had collected. "Might as well be soup," she commented, creating an excuse for her clumsiness.

Despite the joking and giggling and incredible meal to be found at the table that night, despite their undying love for one another, despite their carefree and optimistic lifestyle. This would be Timothy and Anna Blake's last supper, last night together.

The morning that preceded will remain the most terrible day in Timothy Blake's lifetime (and most probably Anna's). He rolled over to Anna's side of the bed in the depths of his sleep, this is what woke him. It wasn't simply was it the fact that Anna usually slept in late and it was only seven, no, there were stronger forces at work than the unusual urge to wake early. A sharp pain prickled at his back like a bee sting only in several different spaces of his back, but not even this was all. Along with the pain, a warm liquid soaked into the back of his t-shirt and boxers.

His first (and incredibly obvious) reaction was to quickly remove himself from the bed. As he stood facing the wall he wondered grimly what was laying in Anna's space of the bed. Blood dripped from his clothing and as he turned with, what Tim believed to be, 'vain fear' he saw what had caused his back to prickle in pain. Upon the bed lay a large splotch of blood and a wilted red rose whether it was actually red or simply colored that way from the blood Tim didn't wish to know despite many gruesome thoughts of the situation. Blood was not only upon the bed but smeared across the ground as if somebody had tried (with much futility) to clean up the mess. There was no doubt in his mind (or, as I'm guessing yours) that this was the scene of a murder, you didn't need to have watched CSI to have figured out such a simple fact. Tears fell from Tim's eyes as he sobbed continuously for his wife. Tim scanned all that he knew about his wife quickly but nothing he could find would lead to her murder. His wife had been slain, the woman he had wished to grow old with was dead only five years into their marriage.

The next few hours were painstakingly filled with police business that has little to nothing to do with the rest of the story so I'll save you the time.

After his questioning had been finished Timothy climbed into his trusty rustbucket with little else but his coat, boots and the clothes underneath. He knew there was only one place for him to go, his Mom's house the place he'd lived for the many years before he'd married Anna. Welll.... she's not his real mom, he was orphaned as a child and she'd adopted him. He'd never had a dad, not even a father figure. His mom had raised him alone, she hadn't bothered with love, only her adopted son, Timothy.
Tim drove with both anger and sadness pulsating painfully in his mind. Still he cried but much more solemnly (less sobbing), calmly remembering Anna's long brown hair hanging beautifully on her shoulders and her dark brown, almost black, eyes shining like diamonds in the sunlight. She had wasted nothing in her lifetime, not food, not time and especially not the chance to make fun of his truck.

"Barely worth the space in the driveway. Can we please get rid of that pile of rust," Anna pleaded staring upon the old ford laying lifelessly in the driveway.

"Ah, but the memories it holds, it's the only vehicle I've ever owned," Tim replied, resisting her sugary tone and waited for her pathetic attempt to change his mind by (with immense futility) trying to hurt his feelings.

"Stupid pack-rat. Every piece of your past will eventually go away and if I have anything to do with it you'll start with this pile of scrap metal," fury boiled within her words but they were wasted on the calm demeanor of her husband.

"You say pack-rat I say nostalgic. You say scrap-metal I say truck. You say the past will go away I say its here to stay," he replied childishly. But as he had hoped with his childish answer to a childish insult the conflict was to be resumed another day.

Now he drove for his old home. He believed his nostalgic attitude had dissipated into the cool night air, he thought all he wanted and needed to know lay in the future. Anna was gone but poor old Tim couldn't grasp the idea and, contrary to his own belief, he was more nostalgic than ever. His memory constantly jolted from memory to reality until neither could be deciphered from the other. This strange cycle went on until his rusty old ford sat comfortably in the driveway of his mother's house.

He slowly hauled himself from the truck, almost dissappointed to see his mom's car was home. Tim couldn't help but be hesitant to relive his horrific experience even once more. Soon he was knocking his knuckles against the smooth surface of the wooden door that lead to his mother's living room. A short woman with black, greying hair answered the door, it was his mother staring back at him.

After she had lead him to the living room and they both sat comfortably facing eachother his mom began speaking. "So you want some tea or cookies?" She asked kindly, staring through large and almost insanely thick spectacles.

"No thanks," he replied blandly, holding back either anger or sadness he didn't have a clue to which it was in such a state of pained confusion.

"Not even home-made chocolate chip?" She asked in blind confusion. As if it simply took her breath away that anyone could refuse her cookies.

"No," he replied simply, still holding back the conflicting emotions within him.

In fact his mother's astonishment about his refusal of cookies (especially of chocolate descent) was well placed. Of all foods he loved chocolate the most and the best place Timothy had ever found chocolate was within his mom's home-made chocolate chip cookies.

"What's the problem?" She asked worriedly suddenly realising the terror of the situation by the simple refusal of baked goods. She then braced herself for the worst which as she had rightly guessed was all there was to find in Timothy's story.

After he had finished his mother stared blankly toward him, unconsciously teetering between shock and disbelief, although she knew that her son would never, in his right mind, lie so severely to her (atleast so she hoped) and of course she was correct.

Chit-chat ensued, flipped out and completely laughable conspiracy theories arose from their words. They also verbally investigated anything or anyone new in both Anna and Tim's life that could possibly lead to murder. But, as they had both already known, no probable theories arose from their conversation. But to his mother's joy Timothy's spirits were lifted by this simple exercise.

So Timothy stayed with his mom and, after several days, his composure had begun to return. Meanwhile Anna's murder had spread to the news, her name had been withheld, but all of the gruesome details, including theft of the body, had been given. Most interesting of all was the mention of a serial killer who had killed the husband and toddler of Katrina Thomas. It was once believed to be an act of vengeance on Katrina or her family but thanks to the new death that held no connections to Katrina it was believed that the killer had something else in mind.

Three days after the most devastating event of Timothy's life he sat in his mother's kitchen eating a breakfast of bacon and eggs. His mom had left to get groceries to accomadate her much welcomed guest. Once he had finished eating Tim dropped himself in a heap on his mother's couch surfing through the channels, finding little satisfaction in anything that found its way to the screen.

As he sat like a slug a several loud knocks rapped against the smooth wooden surface of the front door. Tim was hesitant to answer, he didn't want to speak with sympathetic aunts he hasn't seen in years or uncles who want to speed up the funeral to silence their hysterical wife (despite the fact that there was nothing to put in the casket). But despite his unwilling attitude he knew that if he didn't answer they'd just return later.

As he turned the doorknob and the door swung open he saw nobody that fit the description of an aunt or uncle. The woman that stood before him was a little younger than him, he had never seen her before, she held determination instead of sympathy in the shadowy depths of her cold blue-gray eyes, and her hair was long and messy, holding a black veil over many of her facial features.

"Hello there, and who might you be?" Tim asked trying his best to be friendly to the stranger standing before him who held a dark gaze upon him, unwavering despite his futile attempts to hide from it.

"I'm sorry to bother you brother but I heard about your wife and had to express my deepest... sympathy," her voice was clearly forced to display an obviously fake happiness.

"I'm sorry but I never had a sister. The orphanage would have contacted my mom about it years ago," he was suddenly afraid. Even (at that point) going as far as to believing that there was a good chance that she could have been Anna's killer.

A smile cracked across her lips but the determined flare in her eyes hadn't (yet) burned out. "Oh, how cute. Don't worry Timmy I am your sister, the biggest difference between you and I though is that our parents decided to keep me. I'm Katrina Thomas, by the way, my husband and daughter were killed by the same woman that killed your wife. Oh, and just so you know the police were undoubtfully wrong about one thing at the least."

Suddenly realizing the possibility of truth in her words Tim decided to all that she had to say, but he still wouldn't be dumb enough to allow her to enter his mom's home. "And what exactly would it be that the police are wrong about?"

"Just that the murders are connected and they are undoubtfully an act of vengeance. Not on me, or even you but our father," she seemed almost happy to share her beliefs about the murders with anybody but herself. Tim never wanted to know about his real family and now that he knew that they were the source of his greatest misery he liked the idea of knowing them a whole lot less.

"Elaborate," Tim commanded, he knew that he had to know everything to understand.

"Our dad was engaged before our mom. When Sally, that was her name, got pregnant he realized how much he didn't like her and he left. She stalked him for years, she watched as he met mom, got engaged then married, she watched as you were orphaned and I was kept. When I was a kid she sent letters and notes in our house begging for dad to take her back, he ignored them. Then Sally began threatening mom, and us if he didn't return to her. Dad had enough and...," her voice trailed off, she paused, wondering whether she would regret the words she had guarded within for so long. "He killed her, in front of the child, his child. The kid was orphaned and although mom suggested adoption dad wouldn't have anything to do with Sally's kid. Sandra, the kid, saw it all happen, she knew of the letters and of her father. She began enacting the threats her mother had promised to fulfill with my baby's second birthday, almost a year ago," Katrina began to cry, Tim didn't know what to do, he wanted to comforther but suppressed the urge. He didn't want to make the problem any more awkward than it already was. So instead of helping her he became a spectator in a theatre of sorrow.

Soon the tears stopped falling and Katrina spoke once more. "Sandra lives on Thompson Avenue, number seven. She gardens roses of every color you could name, no other flowers though. If you want to do something about your wife that's the place," She then turned and left, climbing into a sleek black car which Timothy couldn't recognize (he didn't know much about cars). Then she was gone and Timothy knew he would never see his puppeteer again. He knew she was using him to do something she was much too afraid to do herself but what did that matter to him? He believed her completely, it could have been the promise of vengeance or the incredibly accurate stroy that she had told of which not even Timothy himself knew, only one thing was certain, he was paying a person in Thompson Avenue a visit.

His memory of Katrina was faint, he hadn't a clear vision of her in his mind, only a faint sketch, a rendition of the truth. Only a single thing remained of her that he'd never forget, the cold and sarcastic tone of her voice remained uttering the words "Thompson Avenue, number seven". This remained etched on his mind an eternal grip of vengeance that would never begin to leave his memory.

He hauled on his boots and winter jacket. His eyes held a fury that would only be lost in the pain of another and he embraced it. It was time that he avenged not only his wife but his neice and brother-in-law. He then hauled himself into his truck, snow fell lightly against the windows melting as it touched. The keys turned in the ignition but the sputtering that followed held much doubt for the stubborn hunter seated comfortably behind the wheel. once, twice, three times more the key turned and the engine sputtered before dying curses rained down a blizzard within the rickety old truck. It just had to break down at the very worst time possible.

Then he remembered, Thompson Avenue wasn't even a block away, he could simply walk there. It was in the direction of hunting grounds so if he carried a rifle who would make anything of it? He grabbed the rifle that lay solemnly across the passenger seat of his truck and began walking. His boots crunched heavily in the tightly packed snow beneath him, he was heading for the vengeance that patiently awaited him on Thompson Avenue and little or nothing could stand in his way. Cars whizzed beside him as the drivers stared quizzically at the hunter striding with incredible determination for what both the drivers and Timothy alike considered to be a hunting ground.

In less than half an hour Timothy stood at the entrance to Thompson avenue. But the first thing that stared him in the eye was not a house, or a sidewalk, or even the sign proclaiming the name of the street. No, instead a deer standing carelessly in the road held a crude gaze upon the hunter but felt no fear in his presence. Tim shed a single tear as the animal once again stole the image of Anna before a car crashed into the careless beast, the driver and passenger remained unharmed, only their car and the deer suffered damage, but the stubborn deer continued along darting into the wood leaving a trail of blood as it went.

After Tim's bearings had returned her continued on toward house number seven. When it came into view he saw it was a sickly bright green color with a large metal seven bolted onto the door. A victorious smile tore across the hunter's lips, the end was in view.

Tim tapped the tip of his rifle against the door and waited impatiently for Sandra to answer. Footsteps rang out from inside loudly she was home and she was headed for the door. When she answered the door her face became a twisted mask of fear and shock melded together in a tormented frown.

"Why are you here?" She asked, despite being quite sure of the answer.

"The same reason you bothered to kill my wife. Petty vengeance my dear," Tim whispered grimly a demented smile rising across his face as he raised his gun to her stomach and lead her inside. Wilted red roses were strewn everywhere. A child of three lay in a wooden crib shaking its rattle visciously. Tim knew it was Katrina's daughter, for no particular reason at all, it was a simple intuition. "It's Katrina's child isn't it," Tim asked calmly, she didn't reply. "Isn't it!"

"Yes," Sandra sobbed her short blond hair held back in a tight bun.

"What's her name?" Tim yelled, knowing that intimidation was the only way to get Sandra to speak to him.

"Catherine, I couldn't kill her. I didn't have the guts. I had to take care of her, 'cause if I brought her back, I didn't know what Katrina would do," he voice wavered under the pressure of sadness, it was obvious she wasn't as dangerous as Tim had expected.

"Where's Anna? Where's her body?" Tim screamed shaking the barrel of the rifle against her stomach and forcing her to listen to him load up a bullet.

"I buried her, my backyard," She screamed. Timothy didn't realize this but he was becoming as much of a killer as she already was.

"Don't cry, don't cry shhhh," he whispered as silent venom pulsed in his words. "You wont die here, Catherine can't watch that. I'll take you far away and dont worry I'll make it as quick and painless as I possibly can," he laughed bitterly his voice cutting through the silence like a knife.

She was silent, knowing that she probably deserved death for what she'd done to him, but she'd never admit such a demeaning fact to anybody. After several simple orders that I needn't mention for they'd be too miniscule and pointless to offer, they both sat in Sandra's car. Sandra was bound in the passenger's seat and Timothy sat joyfully behing the wheel, knowing that soon he'd be able to go home and the world would be good again (or so he hoped). As they drove down a snowy dirtroad that branched from the highway a question popped into Tim's mind that he had to ask before he sent Sandra to death.

"Why a red rose? I mean why mark your kills with such a puny trademark?" Tim asked oblivious to how connected that Sandra was to the rose.

"They symbolize lust, and I've lusted to make your family pay ever since your idiot of a father killed my mother. Your foster mother was next you know, then Katrina, then you, then your real mother and then, finally your father. But now its all over, I've been planning since I got out of that orphanage," Tim had enough of her he wanted to kill her right there, he wanted to end it all so much sooner but he knew there was only one place for her to die and it wasn't inside her car.

When the dirtroad ended they both climbed out of the car and Tim lead Sandra down the path that twisted and turned until it forked off into the clearing where he had first seen the deer. He stood Sandra up in the middle of the clearing a loosed a single bullet between her eyes before burying her beneath the snow and soil, so that she'd never be seen again.

As Tim began walking back up the path he heard sounds all around him, a branch cracking, an owl hooting, wings flapping, and his own boots crunching heavily in the tightly packed snow, as he neared Sandra's car the deer that he saw had been earlier been hit trotted drowsily toward him until it collapsed in the snow at his feat, dead. He simply stepped over the deer and drove back home.

The next day the police phoned Tim's mother and told her that his blood was found at the scene of the murder at the tip of a thorn on the rose. It was the only evidence found but it was just enough to send Timothy Blake to death row, although he hadn't killed his wife I must admit that he severely deserved the sentence he recieved.

Nobody stood up for poor Timmy.Katrina didn't want to get sentenced for helping her brother kill Sandra, plus she had gotten exactly what she wanted and more. Her vengeance was complete and she had little Catherine back, what did her brother matter to her? Not even Tim's mom stood up for him, she backed up the evidence as a witness stating that Tim hadn't been acting like himself lately and that she wouldn't put murder past him.

But why did you need to know this you may ask, if you've decided not to have given every inch of your attention here is the answer. Love is a rose emitting a crimson glow of beauty, a remembrance of what you've always wanted and the blind belief that you've found it. But even the most radiant rose holds thorns, as does love. For when love is given but is not recieved or is taken away a deep wound is severed within your soul. Remember the rose before you love, not the thorns that may become your end. All whithers, all fades away but when something dear is stolen you may never again be the same.