Response to Short Story- Poison of the Blue Rose
An inner monologue of Laila, the fortune teller, to her lost love, Ranji.
When I was forced into the arms of another, a man who I could never truly love, never give a part of my soul to, everything that I was changed.
I am forced to see the world through his eyes, never able to discover the vibrant hues of passion with the one my body aches for. He tries to explain his scientific mind to me, but I know only you would understand the pain that runs through my veins when I see him walk through the door, and not you with your signature red rose.
Our unrequited love is mocked by the clock on my wall, its constant ticks a reminder of what could have been, what should have been. Rigid rules were set in place about order and betrothal, but tell me, did you not ever long to come after me?
To defy those who will never truly understand the beauty of our romance? To take me, your rightful wife, home? To break the shackles I have been locked up in since I was a girl? To help me to finally have a taste of freedom?
The freedom in which all women should be able to hold in the palm of their hand. A tool I should have been able to use every day of the empty life I have been trying to accept, but simply can’t. To feel free once more would be to release the contaminated air latched in my lungs and breathe in the freshness of endless possibilities.
However, I know it is foolish for me to ask you of this. We are both grown adults now, and I a married woman and a mother to a son who grows to embody you more and more every day, regardless of his true father. Only God knows what has become of you, and all I have left are regrets. Regrets that fill me to the brim about the life we could have had together if we had only let ourselves love and be loved. But most of all, I regret not picking up our rose long ago when it was blossoming with hope for the future.
Now, our red rose has been stained. Once a symbol of our undying love, it has been poisoned. Underneath my bed is a single wilted blue rose, withered away with the hollow years that pass me by.
Just like this rose, I have only bloomed to fade.