The Ravens' Rose

A door in the darkness

I was at the park, playing with bubbles and wandering, when I noticed a hidden path. It was a little overgrown, but nothing I couldn't step on. I took my canteen and followed the path. The sunlight went through the green leaves. Summer's warmth had already trickled into this June afternoon. The trees grew denser, but there were still patches of sunshine.

Suddenly, the yellow dim light was snuffed out and the dirt path turned blood brown. The flowers wilted, life surging away. A dull blue light pulsed ahead of me, beneath the path. It moved. I ran after it, not wanting to be the only living thing in this darkness, the quick and lethal kind. A rotting door clawed its way to me, chunks falling with each wobble. I ran faster. That door betrayed me.

Then I noticed the blue light wasn't no longer in front of me, but under me. I stepped back, and as I did, a black rose, glowing blue, rose from the path. The petals were made of black feathers. The door stopped at the edge of the glow, its paint peeled with worry. There was a sharp sting in my left arm. It jerked upward and the rose wrapped around my wrist. It moved until the flower's head was above my veins. I felt the thorns go around my wrist like a buzz-saw, making a thin cut and a stifled whimper, but then they went faster. I screamed as the rose sank into the mess of flesh. It didn't fit so the steam grew thicker. Spinning, the thorns made a wet ripping sound until they were satisfied. Screeching now, the rose sank in again. With a bloody pip, it nuzzled into my wrist and closed the wound it made.

The door was still there, but it was shaking. Then it slowly wobbled back to the bush. I looked at my wrist. The rose made itself look like a tattoo. How would I explain this? I'm 13. Sunlight broke the darkness and the flowers resurrected. The path turned back to its dirt brown color. And then the panic set in.