The Roses Are Doomed

Sinfully twisted in the thorny picket is a beautiful red rose that blooms gracefully and smells heavenly. While people think that it is the rose that blooms against all odds, that this is indeed a sign of strength, I think differently.

The rose is a weak and a meek lover that cannot go a day without its abusive seducer. It is addicted to the thorny picket, glued to it for life. I am like that rose. I am like that submissive, feeble rose that does not know of a world without the thorns, that still returns to bloom in the barbed, wild bushes.

My name is Hazel. I have a Bachelor's Degree in Education, I am a teacher. I teach the kids at the Primary School nearby and get paid a decent amount for the same. I teach them the processes of photosynthesis and more often than not, am caught up in a show of a bully trying to harass a geeky kid. I have to scold the bully and motivate the geeky kid that he can do better. (How ironic!)

Being a teacher is not my ambition. I want more from life, more for myself. I want to be a fashion designer. I have my own state-of-the art designing studio in my huge condo of one BHK, fully carpeted and partly furnished. My state-of-the art design studio has a sewing machine I bought from a garage sale in the neighborhood, a few fabrics I managed to get on discount from an online start up, a full length mirror and a box full of different colors of buttons and variety of threads.

I met a guy named Philip about four years back. I was about to finish my graduation and had a libido of a teenager. We met at a bar (I know, cliched) and ended up in my bed. He was smart, sexy and funny all at the same time. He was irresistible to my fairy tale hungry heart. The next morning, we talked for hours. About me, about him, about my dreams, and about his. We talked of ambition and dedication. We talked of passion for our work. And we ended up in bed again.

We met on and off for a couple of months, never able to take our hands off of each other whenever we did. We'd go out for dinner and be back to my apartment, just after finishing the appetizers. We were hungry for each other. All our dates would end the same way. Smiles, laughter and the 'oh-my-god' moments. It was picture perfect.

We started dating soon after, and ended up in a committed relationship with my condo keys added to his set of keys. (With this change, also came a change where I graduated and started working at the school I mentioned before.) The mornings were full of smiles and cuddles, and yelling because we'd be late for work. The afternoons, we were piled up with all the work, trying hard not to think about the other person. The evenings, we couldn't take it any more. We had to keep from strutting out of our offices (in my case, staff cubicle). In the night, we'd order take away, fight for what movie to watch, hurriedly exchange the details of the day gone by and tear each other's clothes apart.

A few months went by. The mornings got hotter with our bodies sticking together, the yelling grew louder. In the afternoon, we absorbed ourselves in work to not think about the squabble we had in the morning. In the evening, we started hanging around the offices a little more, finishing the extra work, or getting that last term paper checked. The nights, we'd argue even more about the morning drama episode but end up making out, eventually, leading us to the mighty bed.

A year went by. We had been together 3 years. The mornings were gloomy. He'd check my phone while I would be in the shower. He'd ask me who was I texting last night. He'd yell. I'd yell back. And I'd end up going to school with his angry red fingerprints imprinted on my fair cheek. In the afternoon, I'd try to concentrate on my work, which would prove to be futile. I could not stop the tears from running down my cheeks, burning a hole in the already swollen fingerprinted cheek. In the evening, I'd sit in the park, knees drawn up to my chin, dreading to go home. When it was finally too late, I'd reluctantly stand, pick up my tote bag and walk up to my condo, buying as much time as I could. The nights. I'd go home to find a worried Philip pacing the apartment. As soon as he sees me, he'd rush towards me and pick me up in his arms. "I was so worried. Where were you?" he'd ask. He'd apologize, beg for my forgiveness and try and make me laugh. I'd melt and be happy that he has come back to his senses. He'd serve me food and shower me with compliments, touch my thigh and take me to bed. He'd claim me like his life depended on it, and all I could do was scream for him to stop. We had a topic for the next day's argument, hot and piping.

I left him. Once. Twice. Thrice. Always letting him in the house in the middle of the night. Or after his drunk calls. Or after being helplessly lonely without him. I missed him when he wasn't around, I couldn't stand him when he was. It was a hopelessly paradoxical situation. I wanted to punch him in the face, and I wanted to wipe it clean with my kisses. I longed for his touch and feared his slaps. I wanted him to declare that I was his and I wanted him to give me my space.

I was the rose, and I was entwined in the sinfulness of the thorny pickets. The deeper the thorns tore into my petals, the more attached I got to the thorns. They'd draw blood and all I could say was, 'oh-my-God.'

The Roses are Doomed. And so am I.