Stories of tragedies

The movella is made up of 4 one shot's. The stories are: Goodbye from the black rose An ocean of love and hate A broken silver sea A kingdom of ice

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1. Goodbye from the black rose

A long time ago, there was a girl and she was beautiful.
She was kept lock inside a dark, dark room.
There were no sunlight in the room; she hadn’t even seen the sun.
She has been in this room since she was small.
She was alone; she was lock away in a dark, dark room, without even talking to someone.
She couldn’t even speak. She had never learnt it.
Once a day food came to her, she ever talked or saw the one who gave her food.
She was left alone in a dark cold room.
Of cause in the day time the room was warm, but at night it was cold as ice.
She has been in this room since the day she was born, without knowing anyone, without talking to anyone. Without… no she did see someone.
Once a year on her birthday a boy came, he was the same age as her.
Every year he gave her a red rose, but they didn’t talk.
Every year she took the red rose, it was with thorns.
Every year she bathed the rose in red, from head to toe with her own blood.
On the floor where were now a pool of blood with a deep red rose in it.
All she did was to lie on her bed and look at it.
Looking at her own blood and the red, red rose.
Every year was the same; the boy came, left a rose and locked the door after him again.
He didn’t let her go outside. He didn’t even know her.
Their names, no one knows. The girl didn’t have one, the boy never told his.
It was a miracle they even meet. And why they meet, we don’t know.
But every year this boy came and gave her a red rose, but then one day on her birthday he came and left a yellow rose.
The girl didn’t know what to do about the rose. It was not red.
She didn’t know what to do,  so all she could do was to lay this yellow rose on the ground, it didn’t have thorns, so all she could do was hurting herself as she hammed her hand into the wall.
Not painting the floor but the wall in blood.
Something about her was different, like something was broken.
Ever since that day the boy never came, every year, he no longer came.
It was like he had just been an illusion, just a dream.
But the wounds on her hands remained as a memory of him.
When she got older, she was asleep on the bed.
He came; a young man opened the door, laid a black rose on the bed right by her side.
Without waking her up, he left the room and locked the door.
As if a magical spell had been broken, she awoke. She looked at the black rose.
It was without thorns, but it was beautiful.
She knew it all had come to an end. She wouldn’t see him anymore.
It was all over. She knew it. She just knew it.
No one was where for her, no one would remember her.
No one would know about her, with that she took the black rose and killed herself.
In this dark, dark, colourless room, she died by a black rose left by the one she had come to love. One she didn’t even know…
 

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