Roses #writephoto

Image provided by Sue Vincent for her thursday photo prompt.


The autumn and winter had passed in a fog of misery. Alternating between sullen moping and violent rages against his callousness, I had tried unsuccessfully to forget. But I couldn’t. I had been so sure he was the one, so certain! His eyes still looked into mine, guileless and full of what I had taken to be love. He gazed at me while I slept, followed me through my dreams, appeared in complete strangers crossed in the street. And nothing in that expression said low, lying, cheating skunk. He had had to leave. He wanted me to join him, he’d said. We arranged to meet before he left, to make our plans for when and how, on the edge of the woods, by the style on the path that led to…

The memory came back sharp and clear. I could hear his words naming the place—the path that led down to the stream. The stream, not the river where we usually walked. The oh-my-God-how-could-I-have-been-so-stupid stream! I ran through the spring damp grass of the field to the path that ran alongside the copse. There was a style somewhere. I knew I’d seen it, by a narrow path that wandered off into the trees. I don’t know what I expected to find after so many months, but the faded, withered roses, lying in the shelter of the wall, could have been left there by no one else.

Published by

Jane Dougherty

I used to do lots of things I didn't much enjoy. Now I am officially a writer. It's what I always wanted to be.

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