Every Rose

Edward Newton

[With Red Snow in the books, Edward Newton stands victorious upon a mound of bodies left in his wake. With his precious World Championship strapped around his waist, he walks through an open field in the middle of an odd Miami winter. His careless demeanour as he brushes hands through long blades of grass surprise us.]

Truths and roses have thorns about them.”

[He smiles.]

“A rose’s rarest essence lives within the mighty thorn. A thorn defends the rose, harming only those who’d dare to steal its blossom. It is the only defensive countermeasure it has – a stiff woody projection of dominance, easily avoided by a careful predator. The rose therefore is weakened by its bloom, its blossom purveying an envious stream of confidence, negated by its inability to control the deterrent at its base, which cannot strike, only be struck.”

[Edward stops, his eyes piercing the camera with focus.]

“So, riddle me this, Mr. Rose; a thousand coloured folds stretch towards the sky, atop a tender strand, rising from the land, until killed by a maiden’s hand. Perhaps a token of love, perhaps to say goodbye, it’s the difference between you and I. What are you?

[He continues walking.]

“You’ve been dug from a muddy obscurity and thrust into a bouquet of violence and defeat. You elicit emotion because in your hubris, you believe yourself to be the very best of your kind. You believe your colours appear more vibrant than everyone else’s, and that your ability to defend yourself is much more vigorous than it is. Your notion of your value is accentuated by your inability to capitalise on the thorns you so venomously spew.”

[Stopping to look at us once more, he places his hands upon his hips.]

“So, a thousand coloured folds stretch towards the sky, atop a tender strand, rising from the land, until killed by a maiden’s hand. Perhaps a token of love, perhaps to say goodbye, it’s the difference between you and I. What are you?

[His eyebrows raise and furrow, as his head tilts ever so slightly.]

“You’re a flower, Mr. Rose. In every sour word you articulate, another thorn passes by your mediocre lips, fruitlessly attempting to pierce the veil of success your meandering frame cannot manage. You’re colourful, but once plucked from the obscurity of earth and placed into the vase of a wrestling ring, you wilt and die before the bright lights, starved of the lifeblood you so require. With every predictable defeat, the water of success refuses to touch your tender stem, and you relinquish yourself unto impending peril. You have such delusions of grandeur, that you truly believe that your thorny stem can infiltrate my success and that you can bathe in the warm water of my glory. You wish to replenish your wilting and withering soul at my expense, but it is not to be.”

“For I am not a flower, nor am I vase, or the nourishment in victory you do so require. I am the sheers, cutting effortlessly through your tender stem, ripping through your hubris and ignorance. You’ve been plucked from the ground and thrust into my face, unwanted, undesired and unrequited. Your fragrant perfume of defeat succeeds only in making me nauseas. You’re a delicate little rose, Ethan; easily pruned with thorns effortlessly avoided. On Monday night, as your colourful folds sour into a state of decay, I will prune them one by one until there is nothing left.”

[A wry smile appears across his evil face.]

“Roses are red, violets are blue, every rose has its thorn, but I’ll cut you in two.”

[With his hands making a ‘snipping’ motion, he laughs to himself, then walks into the distance, leaving us behind.]