Roses Have Thorns
Roses have thorns.
The words mocked her. They spoke of truths, of depression, of sanity. She couldn't escape the words. How would she ever break free? They would haunt her. They would haunt her forever.
Roses have thorns.
And they would repeat. It was an endless cycle of haunt, then fall. The words would continue to rise from their fortress, and overcome her heart, until her entire body fell into the pit of depression. She knew not of the consequences.
Roses have thorns.
A thorn. It was a rose's one fault. A perk that would be transferred to the pony who carried them. A flaw that would not be broken. It would stay with her forever. The imperfection that would remain. The one that would drive away those who loved her. The flaw that would desert her. The flaw that would kill her. Or maybe it already has...
"Roses have thorns." This time it was spoken. Like a single voice, echoing through a deserted room. It bounced off the walls and surrounded her. The fog aroused and the words drifted through the air. The sounds did not fade. They stayed in her heart. They stayed there forever.
She was alone, except for her thorns.
Her thorns would never leave. That was the problem with a rose, you could pick the pricks and tear the thorns, but there would always be a hollow indent on the stem. It would remain. Not in its presence, but in its absence is where it will reign, altering the beauty of the rose. It would stay and haunt her. Her work was not perfect. It was an imperfection that left her lifeless.
Thorns don't bite. They don't have to do anything. Just let their sharp ends implant themselves into a pony's heart and they don't even have to move. Just let its shape, its touch, its feel do the work. Just let the pony drain themselves into depression on their own. The thorn is like a catalyst. It needs not any pain. It means no harm. It is just a part of life.
But life is dangerous, and thorns are especially powerful. Distress comes in many forms. One is as common as the air, as normal as a the sun, but as evil as death. Why? Because when a rose wilts, and a flower dies, the thorns remain. They never leave. They fall off the flower and remain in the dirt. Preparing to destroy another.
Roses have thorns.
"Roseluck?" A voice beckoned her with concern edging at its words. She did not respond. Her voice had wilted, like her heart, like her beliefs, like her life. She was a dead flower. A wilted mess. An undid dream. Why even bother?
Why even bother?
Why even bother?
"Roseluck, are you okay?!" Another voice drifted through the air. It beckoned warmth; it spoke truly. It wanted to help her. But the bearer would never understand her pain.
Her thorns dragged holes deeper into her soul. She was irreparable. They would never know of her pain. They would never understand her depression. Her life was a void of solitude and imperfections.
She was alone, except for her thorns.
"Please, Roseluck, just talk to us. Say something, anything!" The other voice panicked. A hoof brushed her side, spreading warmth through her hollow shell. The warmth faded, and eventually ceased to exist, like Roseluck's beliefs and her long gone happiness. Was she insane? Or was she just wilting?
"I'm sorry," unconsciously drifted through her vocals, her voice was raspy and unclear, but the noise was there. She wasn't even aware of her previous statement. All she wanted was to be alone; that was what she deserved. She was sorry for bringing upon them a burden, for desiring something more than she was worth, for disappointing them.
Daisies and lilies would never have thorns. They held beauty unlike a rose's faltered self. Daisies were warm and inviting, their scent as sweet as candy. Lilies were beautiful and decorative, with no pain or cause of suffering. They were both innocent and refreshing, something cherished and adored, something that did not bring pain, something that did not hurt. She was sure she was alone. Why? Roses were dangerous and distressful, symbolizing love and bliss, only to be taken away by the ever-present existence of a thorn. Roseluck was truly alone. She was an imperfect third of a trio not meant to hold her.
Roses have thorns.
"Oh, thank Celestia!" shouted a relieved voice upon hearing Roseluck's uncertain voice. But innocence has a funny way of quickly leaving, and Daisy soon realized the trouble brewing through Roseluck. Something was wrong. Silence erupted like a volcano of nothingness. The absence of voice drifted into Roseluck's heart like another thorn, expanding the void of her soul.
The silence did not go unnoticed. It did not end. It spread like wildfire, engulfing fields of roses, leaving nothing but the thorns. The thorns would not go. They would stay forever.
The other voice trembled in worry, "S-sorry...? For what? Roseluck, are you okay!?" Her voice drifted through Roseluck's mind, but did not reach her heart. Or, to be exact, what was left of her heart.
Roses have thorns.
"No," Roseluck's pleaded, "I am sorry for hurting you, but my thorns have killed me, and I don't want them to kill you. I must go." She looked up with dreaded heart and foggy eyes to a pair of ponies who were her 'friends'. She had no friends anymore.
She was alone, except for her thorns.
"NO!" shouted the two in unison. They looked to each other with dismayed uncertainty, knowing this was an internal problem revolving not around themselves, but the faults they had no experience of.
They saw a beautiful rose, Roseluck saw a wilted weed.
Roseluck dragged her head, and her actions began to resemble that of a lifeless burden. "I am sorry. I hope you can forgive me, but I need to go." Her voice was vacant.
She imagined cutting the petals of a rose, one by one, into a fast flowing, rushing river. They would drift away with the currents, and be gone forever. They would be gone like her family, her friends, her experiences, her life. All that would be left would be a useless stem filled with painful thorns and no beauty. It would be finished. It would be complete. Or would it be vacant? Does absence make something complete? Or does it become the opposite, something short-lived and nevermore?
She didn't know. She forget everything, all she ever knew. Her thoughts were entirely consumed by the everexisting words...
Roses have thorns.
She walked away from her motionless friends, hoping they would not follow. She needed to be alone. She couldn't stand hurting them anymore. All she wanted was to be rid of her thorns. But... Roses have thorns.
Roses have thorns.
Roses would always have thorns.
Would she ever be rid of that thought, repeating itself, revolving inside her mind? Telling her what was true, and urging her to take a step forward and cut the rose? Would she? No. Roses would always have thorns. Always. And then her decision was made.
Only if there was no rose, would there be no thorns.