Bloodied Roses

Raethia crept up the stairs to the top of her apartments, her dark clothes falling gracefully around her as she ascended the steps, her boots clicking loudly on the worn stone, but she gave the noise no heed.
A large black iron door occupied its postion at the top of the stairs, She reached deep into the folds of her long cloak and removed a wrought iron key. Its small shape fit easily into the lock, a small 'click' and the door swung outwards slightly, beckoning to Raethia as she replaced the key in her pocket. She stepped across the dark doorway, stepped onto the roof.
The sun had set long ago, only the moon lit her shadow as she walked over to the southerneastern wall that prevented anyone from walking over the edge to the unforgiving stone below.
Here was where she grew her roses.
Long ago, when she was a little girl, she has watched her mother tending her roses in their garden. Her mother had spent hours in the gardens, pruning and watering the plants, making sure that every bloom held perfection in its petals. Raethia had often watched her mother at work in garden, marveling at teh amount of love and care that she gave to those flowers, and wondered and wished why her mother could not find enough care in her heart to care andn nuture her in the same way as she did those flowers.
Once, Raethia had dared ask her mother if she could help with the roses. 'Mother, may I help you prune the roses this spring? I've watched you many a time, and I'm sure with you helping me, I could manage to do it properly, and i promise i won't destpry the stalks like father did the last time he tried to help you?'
Nodding between thin pursed lips, her mom has acquiesed, and Raethia had tried her hand at the roses. True to her word, she found that she had indeed picked up much of the craft from just watching her mother, and she deftly cut the dead stalks from the base, leaving behind the strongest shoots to grow. But even as she worked, she realized that there was still much about the care of the roses that she did not understand. 'Why do you need to do it like that mother?' she asked. 'Why do we need to add all of that stuff to the soil, isn't it good enough on its own. You didn't add that last year!' It was at that point that her mother had gotten tired of her. 'Honestly child, you ask way too many questions for a child of your age. I can finish the rest of this myself, go any play with the other children.'
It had been a dismissal, and as always, Raethia had had no other alternative than to obey.
Except, that there were no other children for her to play with. Her parents had never been kind to their neighbors, and as such few of their neighbor's children were willing to as much as adknowledge Raethia's presence among them, never mind let her join in their games of tag or ball.
{ Piece missing}
And so when she had fleed her place of torment, she had brought the rose with her. She tended to it often, stealing away when the moon was full to tend to it under its cool light, though she'd never been able to tame it to any desired shape, and grew wild and untamed.
Tonight, feeling the pain of her life inside, she sought solace from the plant, desired some of its beauty when she felt she herself had none. She carefully removed her knife from its hiding place, sliced off one of the blood red buds, and lifted it to her nose carefully, inhaling its sweet scent. It relaxed her a bit, and she blessed the small bloom with a light kiss on its petals much as she had once done to her former lover. The hurt surged back up inside of her and she remembered him, and she turned the stem of the rose on herself trying to rid herself of the pain. The thorns pricked her fingers, she dragged the stem down the length of her arms and hissed as the pain increased and long red welts appeared where the thorns deposited their poison. Lastly, she drew the painful barbs down the hollow between her breasts, watched as blood the same color as the petals ran down her chest. She felt her face stinging where she'd wracked it, stared blankly at where the scars would soon form on her wrists, hugging her arms closer to herself as she put the knife away back in the folds of her cloak. Weeping silently to herself, she tossed the rosebud over the wall, crept back downstairs and tried to hide herself from the world.