Roses are Red

When you're a queen, your word is law. When your word is law, people fear you. They cower, they hide, and they bend over backwards to assure your satisfaction. Without question they listen, attentive and responsive with keenness, but in that same pleasant breath they scorn your existence.

When you're a queen, you rule the world. Every man and woman nothing, but a pawn on your playing board as they bow, their backs near breaking point—and Amora liked it that way. She liked having every pathetic man on their knees begging for her hand, her lips, and her body. Some times she'd give in, allowing those desperate men to bed her into senselessness, but there was always something missing.

Her body felt empty and unsatisfied. Deep down, Amora knew she wasn't as callous as everyone assumed her to be. Her heart throbbed against her chest with a longing; a longing to be cradled in someone's arms and loved. Genuinely loved. She wished to feel the soft touches of their affectionate hands, to feel fluttering kisses against her neck, and to stare endlessly into their eyes, seeing the very depths of their being. She wanted the sensations of butterflies in her stomach and to feel the burning of her cheeks from embarrassment. She wanted to feel their soul flow through her as they made love. Everything that love should be she sought. She sought it so badly her kingdom’s emblem reformed into a heart—and she was the Queen of Hearts.

Amora was allowed a scarce moment of freedom and in that time she took to her private garden—she always visited her garden. Daintily she touched the petals of her bright and brisk roses, their petals large and soft under the tips of her fingers. Smiling, she pulled herself back and admired her time consuming work, although her smile fell flat. There was something unsettling and off about the small bush that she couldn't place. Something drastic. Was she not watering the roots adequately? Did she not shower the growing buds in enough adoration? What did her garden need?

It was lacking something, much like her heart. It yearned for something neither could obtain and Amora felt the wound in her chest all the more. The one thing she tendered with such affection was also suffering and dejected. Was Amora not exhibiting the love it truly deserved? Were her touches like the men she bedded? Lifeless, dull, and unfulfilling? She didn’t want to think of himself in such a dishonorable way. No, she knew the reason.

Slowly she turned on her heel, staring at the center of the greenery. It held an enormous clear crystal; one no one was allowed to go near and only her most trusted of guards were allowed to gaze upon. It was Amora's most cherished and prized possession—it was her heart itself. Prickly vines that flowered the most stunning roses encircled it and inside floated a man. He drifted in a boundless slumber with blazing red hair, his long lashes making his face amply tantalizing and exquisite.

Amora sauntered towards it, carefully placing her palm and cheek against the cold imprisonment. She craved to be held in his arms. To feel his kisses, the warmth of his body, and gaze upon the honeyed smile of his face. She yearned for his fingers to grace her bare skin as their bodies laced and melted together into the night. Amora wanted his love so badly; she desired it with an unexplainable aching, but her love…her love was not reciprocated.

She was a Queen. She could have any hog faced man she wanted. Why did this one in particular disobey her? Amora didn't want to do this, but the thought of him lying with anyone else made her jaw tighten and her heart pound with a mad rage. The imageries of him loving someone so undeserving made Amora livid—so she took him. She took what was rightfully hers, capturing him in a prison of ice for all eternity, for only Amora to gaze at.

No one else would have him. No one.

“No one compares to you, Egantine. Not even the roses I so adore…” Amora breathed against the ice, her hot breath fogging against it, “You are the most beautiful. The most beautiful rose….and mine forever. To love and cherish….”

The icy response made Amora unstable. She collapsed onto the ground, tears falling from her eyes as quiet sobs rumbled from her throat—and there she sat. There she sat in the middle of her rose garden, the bushes filled with the heads of men, their mouths sprouting bloodied red flowers. The faces of men who didn't, and would never, love her the way she knew Egantine would.