Four roses.

That's all they ever found.

The first, large, full. It's dazzling, bright, golden hue a sharp contrast to the uncaring hard grey of the stone beneath. The stem was long, alive with color and free of any leaf or thorn. It lay free, unrestricted by any worldly power. The petals were packed tightly, hiding a harsh red within their folds.

Beside it lay a smaller flower. This one was of a deep lavender, unnaturally dark. It's stem had many leaves, almost hiding the slender body from view. The harsh tones of the buds bloom were more in compliment with its lighter counterpart than in contrast. Together they formed a strong range of color. Warm and cool, light and dark, working to balance each other.

Off a ways, on the arch of the dark marble, was another rose. This one was smaller by far beside the other two. Rather than a stunning display of vibrant colors, this little blossom was as ashen as the snow that blanked the night. It's soft beauty held within a muted white bloom. This rose was rather thorny. The stem was laced with crimson and showed many signs of tentative care. So sad a flower, and yet so strong it seemed.

But the final Rose, that Rose, was not to be found in that place. No, that Rose, that Rose who surely belonged now in such a necropolis, was not to be seen in the harsh cold of reality. That Rose was discovered in bed.

Bright red that Rose's petals were. Wrapped around her comfortably. How soft the curves of her face, burdened by tears and yet graced with a smile. Grim, determined, terrified, lost, so very very lost. Her body was not adorned with leaves or thorns but tears and gashes.

That Rose was found alone. The floor stained with her guilt. With her sadness and her self loathing. Her face marred by the streaks of her hatred, for the world and for herself. There was no one left to cry for her, so she had done her own crying.

Two words. Two little words were all that she left behind. Not that there was anyone to read them. Not that anyone would care to. But she needed to explain herself, if to no one but herself. So scrawled in black, handwriting deliberate and even, she left her epilogue. Her condemnation.

My fault