Apomorphy’s Usurp
Leyla had a rose garden behind her manor. Every day, after lunch, she would pace the garden, taking in what she considered her babies. Though Leyla had hired gardeners to tend the flowers, it was her who planted and weeded. She was the one who pleaded the buds to grow, and grow they did. The roses grew so big they created a maze, hiding the people who walk the stone path between them. Today, Leyla was tiptoeing through, giving her blessing to each rose. In her mind, she was their flower queen, their rose goddess. She reached out and pricked her finger on their thorns as she stroked them, admiring how powerful her babies had become, to produce the red beads on her white flesh. She did this so there was a prick on each finger, and promised to pet the others when she healed. As she bent to examine the soil, Leyla spotted something peculiar. There was a rose, but it was not like the rest. No, it was different in so many ways. This rose was small, even for a normal flower, leaning towards the ground. Leyla herself wilted as she saw it. But there was something else strange. This flower was not the same shade of red as the blood the thorns produced. This rose was black, a deep coffin black.
"No," Leyla muttered, dropping to her knees, not caring if her gown was spoiled. In the years since she was crowned among the roses, she never once had a flower die on her. Not once. They kept growing, reaching for the clouds, opening up to the sun, and she fed them little drops of her blood to keep them strong. But this baby of hers never had the chance. What was this? A curse? An omen?
Shaking, Leyla reached out to cradle the petals. They were smooth against her skin. There were no thorns on the vine, nothing open up her food source. She gripped tightly onto the stem and pulled until the flower came up from its roots. The minute it broke free, a scream erupted from the manor, and all the red roses turned to rot, falling onto Leyla, cradling her forevermore.