The rose bled softly as the girl cried. Her toes dug into the mud, wiggling like earthworms as she tried to sink deeper. The forest blew around her, swaying and flicking its branches as she whimpered. Would she die? The girl watched the blood drip onto the ground beneath her, like raindrops or fallen seeds. She wondered what would grow. The sky was dark and purple, stars waiting to show themselves as the sun went away. Her tears blurred the world around her, hazy and fluid.
Beads of salt water settled on the fabric of her raincoat as her tears rolled down her cheeks.
Mother will never find me, she thought. Mother will never find me.
Fear pooled in her stomach. But what good was fear? She dried her tears with her sleeves, careful not to get blood in her hair. Contentment for the life she had lived settled over her, but fear still threatened. If she would die now, she lived a wonderful life.
Molly can have my things, she told the trees, hoping the news would find her sister.
The wind tried to knock her over but she dug her toes deeper into the mud. She would stand with her feet in the earth until she could stand no longer. Maybe she would grow, maybe the roses would wrap their arms around her and keep her safe, maybe she would just lie there, empty of blood and no longer scared. Maybe that was okay.
Mother will never find me.
The world is too big, the trees are too loud, the thorns are too sharp. She cried, screamed as loud as she could but the trees quietened her, comforted her despite their moaning and creaking. The sun peaked ever so slightly through the distant forest, lighting up her skin, warming her.
Perhaps this is how the forest felt, she thought.
Her skin prickled with the warmth and she stopped crying. She would die but the roses would take care of her. The weightlessness that came when her mother picked her up made her screech. The roses looked up at her, their petals dancing in the wind, waving goodbye. The prick of her finger seemed smaller as her mother kissed it better.
You'll live, her mother said.
The forest waved goodbye as the wind carried on.
I'll come back, she whispered to the roses, her fear fading away with each of her mothers steps. Blood-red petals fell from the girls fingers, marking the path back to where the world grew taller, where the girl had pricked her finger and fed the earth. She played with the prick on her finger, the blood dry and the pain gone. She would live and the roses would grow, waiting for her to return.