Gemotions

The delivery boy, all of sixteen and seemingly oblivious, practically shoved the roses into her hands. They were crimson, the color of spilled blood. She mumbled a thank you, her voice catching in her throat, and closed the door. She leaned against it, the scent of the flowers a suffocating presence.

She carried them to the kitchen table, where they took up residence amidst the scattered mail and unpaid bills. She didn't want them. She wanted to smash the vase, to tear the flowers apart. She sank into a chair, her shoulders slumped.

Her eyes stung, but no tears fell. The silence in the apartment was deafening. The vibrant color of the roses mocked her, a reminder of a life she felt had suddenly been ripped away. She could barely manage to breathe, the air thick with unspoken accusations.