Gemotions

He stared at the roses, each bloom a perfect crimson, a stark contrast to the sterile white of the hospital room. His wife, Emily, had received them. No card. He eyed the flowers, as if they were living things, their stems acting as tiny, fragile legs.

He felt his pulse quicken. The doctor's words replayed in his head, a mantra of doom. He grabbed the bouquet, his fingers tightening around the stems. He thought of his wife’s surgery and the risks involved. He walked towards the window, pulling the roses open one by one.

He looked over his shoulder. The roses seemed innocent, but he thought he saw a glint in their eyes. This was all a trap.