you know that the organization will kick you out if you spill one more drop. you know that the pool is already more than enough controversy to your name. you know that you're on probation. you don't care, and you happily grasp the rose. you rub the rose all over your naked body, poking holes in your sensitive skin, some of those thorns sticking onto your flesh like a bur on a fur coat. you even shove the thorn-filled rose into your throat, almost swallowing it, poking holes in your tongue like nothing else; you would swallow it whole, but your body's gag reflex refuses. you embrace the pain, wanting more and more of it. it envelops you, hugs you, hugs you like no one has hugged you before. all this in your fit of emphatical rage. there you lay, blood pouring out of you, staining the floor with your dark red DNA, not caring of the world. you don't care about your probation anymore. you don't care what the organization thinks anymore. you don't care about your legacy anymore. as you feel your heartbeat slow, and as you take your last breaths, you smile: a soft smile, like one you give to a loved one under a beautiful sunset. you think about your life, and satisfied with it, you smile once more, and pass away.UltraHenzie wrote:
the smooth, red roses prickle your hand as you touch them. right after this, blood slowly spurts from your thumb and you are beginning to feel helpless. quickly, you ran to your house to get band-aids, with the blades of grass tickling your feet as it goes through.