Last winter rose blooms in a scene of desolation

It was late May when she left, right before the start of winter.

I can still remember the evening clearly, lying in bed gazing through the cool window.

Outside, shadows twirled in the dying twilight, the trees dancing a waltz that grew into a fandango as the bitter wind swept through the valley.

They had almost all shed their coats, the glossy green leaves darkening and growing richer in colour until they were the shade of warm honey.

One colour stood out - the tall crimson roses that sprouted in the midst of the gold and bronze, their emerald stalks holding them up above all other flowers.

Like royalty observing the common, they were anomalies, possessing a majestic beauty that set them apart from all that surrounded them. When I was younger, I used to love autumn.

The forests that melted into caramel, the wafting smell of rich pumpkin pie, fresh from the oven.

The air outside felt ethereal, at the perfect temperature of mild, so one was never too hot or too cold, but rather felt as though they were dreaming.

As soon as March arrived, I was lost in my reverie, racing outside as soon as the first wildflower was spotted, delicate hands plucking and pressing it in between yellowed pages and wild stories of fantasy lands, a moment in time preserved forever.

However, as I grew older, I forgot about the magic of the season.

I chose instead to stay inside, hiding behind plastered walls and observing nature through pristine glass.

I never had the time to explore the woods, or to press the flowers.

Now they lay forgotten, shrivelled up among torn pages like discarded memories.

Downstairs I could hear the shouting beginning again, growing more thunderous in volume as both of my parents joined in.

The screams of my sister answered, though incomprehensible I could tell she was furious.

Suddenly there was a great thud and I flinched, realising that the front door had been slammed shut.

Like a fatal gunshot, the crash resonated through the house before ending in abrupt silence, telling everyone in earshot that it was final.

The battle was over, but neither side knew who'd won.

I remember the cold feeling that spread through my body, the nervous thoughts that forced me to crawl out of bed and creep over to the window, clammy fingers pressing up against the freezing glass panes as I drew aside the thin curtains and peered outside.

My sister Rosalind paced up and down the dusty driveway, angry tears spilling from her chartreuse eyes.

She had a tragic beauty about her, as if her portrait should have hung on a ruined castle wall in some exotic, long forgotten realm.

Her hair billowed up around her olive face, an ebony mane that made her enchanting features all the more enigmatic.

I watched with bated breath as she edged closer to the gate, her expression tenacious but unsure.

She reached for the twisted metal bar and hesitated, bony fingers gripping the handle.

In that moment, I could have run to her.

I could have changed everything with just a single word. Stay.

But I didn't. Instead, I drew the curtains shut and trudged back to bed, closing my eyes as the duvet shrouded me in the warmth and security I was too comfortable with to leave.

The flimsy fabric draped over the window blocked my sister from sight, a barrier between my world and hers.

I would never understand her, and she could never understand me.

In the morning she was gone, and a fresh blanket of snow covered the ground.

Winter had arrived and the trees were bare, their brittle frames shivering in the early sunlight and light breeze.

The wildflowers had disappeared with the grass, and before me lay a blank canvas with only one imperfection.

The crimson roses outside had withered overnight, their pristine petals dead in the cold frosts.

All except for one, a single flower that had risen above the snow and now stood in gloomy solitude.

It had escaped the icy grasp of winter that had tainted the others, leaving it in isolation as they sank deeper and deeper into the winter haze.

Rosalind, the last winter rose.

By Charlotte Dickie, Year 11, Logan Park High School

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