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In the outskirts of town, just a short walk from Pip’s abode on the other side of the tall pine forest that practically envelops the entire town, lies the most beautiful rose bush he had ever laid his eyes on. It looks over the mountainous terrain of the Colorado Pike Peaks region, isolated from the rest of the world, and not a soul knows about its existence, no one except Pip, of course. He wants to keep it that way, for this secluded part of South Park was to be his and his only.
He would take the trek after school nearly every day to visit the rose bush and appreciate its beauty. At first, he enjoyed it from afar, afraid of its fragility and how the thorns adorning everything from the base of the bush to the stem of a single rosebud looked sharp enough to pierce even the thickest of skin. But he had his eye on one specific rosebud of the bunch, its barbed stem armed to the teeth and its color a bright, blood red color, and every time, he had to refrain from pulling it from its union and taking it home with him. And he couldn’t help but to squeal with joy when it finally bloomed and spread its petals for him.
Although he would never admit it to himself, let alone shout it out loud for the rest of the Earth to hear and seethe in envy, he loved that rose: thorns and all. He thinks the rose must have loved him back with the way it sways with the wind in excitement whenever Pip finally made his way to the area, as if it was greeting him, and how it awarded Pip by admitting a powerful, sweet aroma for him to take in, strong enough that he didn’t have to put the flower to his nose to smell it.
But to love a flower is impossible. It was wrong and it was ridiculous. No one should love a flower the same way a man loves a woman, so he refuses to accept that he does. He slowly began to stretch out the times between visits until he stopped coming altogether, trying to distract himself with schoolwork and the girl who was just as sweet on him as he was with that single red bloom. But it was in vain. He could never stop the image of that rose infecting his brain, forever hooked on its scent, so he paid it one last visit.
The rose had entered its early stages of wilt in his absence: its color was fading, the drying petals began to droop, and the stem had been losing the strength to support the now heavy flower.
It didn’t matter to Pip. He still thought the rose was the most beautiful in the bush. But the flower was starting to lose the smell he loved so dearly, and he craved to smell it again.
He wasn’t afraid to reach down and wrap a few pale fingers around the thorned stem because he knew the rose would never hurt him. He could tell the flower still loved him from the usual greeting he received when he arrived, he just wishes it smelled the same as well.
When he pulled it from the bush, there was a harsh snap as it was disconnected from the rest of its stem, as if it yelled in pain. He tried to soothe the flower by petting the bloom, the velvet petals felt soft between his fingertips, before he suddenly ripped a petal from its head. When he let go of it, the wind carried it a few feet before it touched the dirt of the Earth.
“I love you.” He said, and then he plucked another petal out, “I love you not.”
The minutes felt like years as Pip battled with his own mind, hoping the petals would finally give him the answer to the dilemma he’s been debating with himself for far too long. He didn’t even realize he was inflicting pain onto a defenseless flower, nor did he want to acknowledge that the thorns piercing his fingers were beginning to hurt and were ripping open his skin. By the time there were only two petals left clinging onto the bud, he knew his answer, but he kept going nevertheless.
“I love you not. I love you.” He smiled and repeated, “I love you!”
When he finally decided that he loved the flower, it was far too late. The one thing he ever truly loved had been desecrated and deflowered, its wilting petals stripped from its heart and left to shrivel up and die on its new earthly grave. He knew the flower would never forgive him for what he’s done when he leaned forward to smell what was left of the flower and picked up nothing but the stench of pine traveling in the wind from the nearby forest. He doesn’t know if he could ever forgive himself either as he crumbled to his knees and grieved over what could have been, clutching what was left of the flower in his arms.