Withered vines in winter’s hold, shadows under snow; no roses now, just thorns and memories of the luscious red blooms—but no, not memory, not mere memory, nor wilted petals either. Blood on the snow, crimson and hot blood.
Am I dreaming? I feel so sick, dizzy, as I wander. Maybe it’s my blood. Am I dying? Am I dead? Is this all a dream? I take an unsure step, feel ice underfoot, sliding foot, and grasp the lattice. The thorns cut, but the pain is far, far away. Iron hinges sing somewhere in the graveyard while I stare wonderingly at the blood.
Hands are grabbing me. Strong, big grip. Voices, questions, but I can’t understand. The wardens’ breath rises into the sky, into the white, cloudy sky, where they disappear from sight and with them any meaning they hold, folding, melding into the white, empty sky. Unblemished white sky. No stains up there. No meaning. Clean. White.
The pallbearers take the body, but they go the wrong way. Out, out of the graveyard, they carry the pretty girl, our nurse, who’s changed her white apron for red.
Tale Told 