She stares blankly at the wall. This is the third time now. She adds another failure to her long list. Each trial has left a mark. The first left a burn around her neck. The second attempt left jagged scars running across her wrists. And the most recent, was still an open wound. A line that was drawn across her neck. Under the gauze it was still red and angry, disfiguring her further.
Most people think that heaven is a radiant white. But to her, white is hell. White is the colors of the walls, the stiff sheets and mattress, the bandages that covered her, and the God awful gown, Her heaven wasn't this. This colorless world was what drove her to the brink of madness.
She turned so that she could see an old vase. The chipped paint and discolored designs held flowers. Fat roses, that were past their time. Their heads drooped downwards, petals settled beneath them. Their hue now browned. Their leaves were dry and crisp, slowly deteriorating. The flowers were dead, but they were unwillingly kept alive, even for just an instance longer.
Just an instance longer, she thought. That's what she was. A withered rose being uselessly watered and pruned. Either way she would leave. So what was the point of being a wilted flower?
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