Fiction

She hated roses

The bruise is fresh. She could still feel the burn on her skin and the lingering pain from where his fist connected with her cheek. Her eyelid still swollen, keeping her from seeing clearly. It aches, but her heart ached more.

“This will be the last time. I won’t let it happen again”, she tells herself, knowing full well it was a lie. But it was all she could do to keep it together.

She hears the front door open and reluctantly makes her way to the living room. She finds him standing there with a bouquet of roses. He drops down to his knees, crying, and apologizing; promising that he will never lose his temper again. “It’s alright”, she says as she hugs him, looking at the roses… and remembering how much she hated roses.

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