Archive of Our Own ^beta

I frowned. The box sat discarded and unopened in the garbage. I sighed. She always did this to me. I tried so hard to please her. To give her presents that showed how much I loved her, how much I cared. I wrote her poems, sent her letters, left her messages during the day just to let her know I was thinking of her. But nothing ever worked. They all ended up like this box. Thrown away. Rejected.

Resignedly, I lifted it out of the bin and laid it on the counter to undo the bow that kept it closed. Removing the lid, I stared at the roses she had refused to even acknowledge. They had started to wilt and drooped slightly as if they too were saddened by her dismissal. One by one I removed them from the box, laying them side by side on the counter. Two dozen blood-red roses. They were her favourite. I knew this; had known her long enough for it to be a certainty. But still they weren’t good enough. Because they were from me.

Lifting a rose, I inhaled its scent, fingers wrapped tightly around the stem, thorns digging into my flesh. Lowering it, I loosened my grip, using my other hand to pluck a petal.

She loves me.

I dropped it in the box then plucked another.

She loves me not.

I dropped that one into the box also.

Pluck.

She loves me.

Drop.

Pluck.

She loves me not.

Drop.

Pluck.

She loves me….

===

She walked wearily into her apartment, kicking off her shoes before sinking onto the couch. Resting her elbows on her knees, she dropped her face into her hands. Her shoulders shook but she had no more tears. They had all been spent today as she’d watched them lower his body into the ground. Michael. She had loved him; had dreamed of marrying him. But that dream had been shattered with a single bullet. The police had ruled it a mugging but she felt differently. She knew. He had been murdered and it was her fault. Shakily, she stood, making her way to the kitchen. She needed a drink.

She noticed it as she went to open the cupboard; the bright blue ribbon lying on the counter. Her eyes darted to the garbage. The box was there but it had obviously been opened. Goosebumps rose on her arms. He had been here. Walking over, she ripped off the box’s cover. Inside lay the remnants of roses, mangled and devoid of petals.

Her heart climbed into her throat. He had found her again. Backing away from the garbage, she turned and ran towards her bedroom. She needed to leave. Now.

===

I breathed in her scent, reveling in how close I felt to her with the cool fabric pressed to my cheek. She burst into the room and stopped short staring at my handiwork. I smiled, proud of myself. The bed and dresser were covered in the petals I’d taken from the roses and on the mirror I’d written what they had confirmed. She loved me. She rushed to the mirror, using her hands to smear the words until they were unreadable.

“I don’t love you!” She screamed, looking around wildly. “I never will, you psychopath. Just leave me alone!”

She crumpled to the ground, sobbing. I frowned, confusion and anger warring within me. She had to love me. She had to. Otherwise…

I stood and, opening the closet door, stepped out. She jumped, looking up at me. Those wide, almond shaped eyes told me what I would have to do next.