Silky dark-blue petals twirled gently in a unseen breeze. They brushed past the pale skin of a prone figure upon the floor, a petal or two often getting caught in the dark and mangled coat the figure wore. His face was nearly obscured by the darkness, though dark blue eyes, an almost exact shade of the petals, shone bright. A raspy breath would exit his lips, his chest heaving for another lungful of air, possibly his last.

“He loves me…”

The voice echoed throughout the long hallway, and the figure on the floor convulsed, shouting in pain. The petals surrounding him began to grow less silky, less beautiful, as if they were wilting, wilting, as he was.

“He loves me not…”

His hands clasped into fists while he attempted to sit up, a red haze starting to grow at the edges of his eyes when another wave of pain struck him. He slowly pushed himself against a cold brick wall, one hand fingering the cool metal of the lighter he kept in his coat. He could hear footsteps through the other end of the long corridor, slowly fading away.

“He loves me…”

The man clenched his teeth as another wave of immense pain struck him. Stars floated past his vision, and he started to curse the monstrosity behind those words. He was supposed to escape. He wanted to live.

My rose, or hers. The man thought, picking up a half-wilted petal. This is what he owed her. She saved his life, and now, he shall save hers.

“He loves me not…”

His vision started to ebb, the pain no longer affecting him as it had. He was dying, it was an odd thought to wrap himself around. He had not considered himself invincible, but he had thought that he could pull through any situation. And now, his very life was being plucked away.

Petal, by petal.

“He loves me…”

And the man no longer heard, as the last breath exited his lungs. He slumped to the side, his eyes starting to glass over.

Get out of this hellish nightmare, girl. And then the man thought no more.

Just minutes before the life left his veins, there was a small, delicate hand probing inside his pocket. Red eyes stared gently down at the man, the eyes of a little girl, holding a young, red rose.

When she pulled her hand away, she was grasping the small lighter, and she walked away quickly, taking a nervous look back at the man.

He must be sleeping, I’m sure he will catch up later. Were her thoughts.