The Bloodied Rose Novels & Stories

I follow the droplets till my eyes lay on a frightful sight. My heart sinks as I see an unconscious Rosemary with blood running from her nose , her dress dirtied by the earths soil – she looks so fragile , like a hurt puppy. I gently scooped her up and made my way to the hall – So many questions are running through my mind ; who did this? Did she maybe fall? Who would want to hurt such an innocent person? No matter what I thought , one thing was very clear – I will kill the person who has done this!

Chapter Two: SIGHTING Later that night, Rojean dolled up to go to a place that was both a nightclub and a bar that everyone was talking about. She was old enough, for sure, especially if she was going to get married soon. But she was never the kind of person to go out on the weekends, to a club or even a bar and always preferred the comfort of their apartment which Lucas didn’t mind at all even when he wanted to go out. She was in a cream coloured off shoulder dress which stopped mid-thigh and hugged her curves beautifully.

His eyes widened, and all of the blood began to drain from his face. The bouncer reacted first, pushing Henry back and shouting for help. It was then that a shiny object slipped from Henry’s grasp onto the modern blue carpet. Her mouth fell agape as her eyes widened with realization. The blood was draining from Rome’s face because it was spilling all over the floor. As he fell forward, she rushed to him, grabbing hold of him and lowering him to the floor. His voice was just a whisper, but she could understand what he was saying, “Ella… I love you, Ella.”

She said with amazement. There was a lotus floating in the middle of the pond. That was the destination for all the roses. I stood behind Zeve, stoically peering at the rose. I crossed my hands across my chest. My wrist was bleeding less, so I tightened my grip around it, reopening the wound. God knows why I wanted that wound to not heal. It was as if I was waiting for something to happen, but didn’t know what. The blood stained my shirt, too, but who cared? The rose race was more intriguing to watch.

Suddenly, a tear fell from her beautiful eyes, soaking into the bed sheets. Emilia was stunned, then quickly turned away, looking out the window. She didn’t wipe the tear, letting it continue to fall. She quietly cried, making no sound except for her trembling back. Suddenly, a warm hand rested on her shoulder, and right after, a warm embrace enveloped her. Emilia widened her eyes slightly, her forehead resting on the warm chest of the man. The air around her nose carried a fresh scent like the forest, mixed with the faint metallic taste of blood.

VINCENT MOREAU In the face of all the chaos, who it was did not matter as much, anymore. There was too much of everything to be bothered about a door being drawn open-from the air I breathed in being so thick with the saltish, metallic smell of blood that I could almost taste it on my tongue to and the foul smell of fish-it had always been there, but now it stunk even more. My boots remained fixed on the wet concrete floor that was now covered with what was left of the fight that had just marked my loss.

Jeffrey rushed home with the last glimmer of hope and finally panicked completely when he saw the dark and empty house. The rose in the greenhouse had the courage to escape. No one could accept it. Rose could only follow the Little Prince around and never leave. He froze in place, looking at the bouquet placed in the center of the door. He then realized how ridiculous he had been. I wrapped him one last bouquet, but unfortunately, none of those flowers were roses. The rose had gone to find freedom. He couldn't keep me, and I no longer belonged to him.

His blood roared in anger, with so much quest to taste the blood of whoever had done this to his rose. Some seconds back, he had sworn to butcher whoever had dared to damage his car with a pebble and watch the blood of that person flow down the road in competition with the pouring rain but this moment, he was not just going to watch the blood of the bastard that dared his little rose, flow like river, he was going to drive a stake into the heart of that person, split him open and chop him off till he was nothing but tiny million pieces of skin against the floor.

Their light, their unity, their fragile peace. And I hated how beautiful it looked. Because beauty was just a lie the gods told before they broke you. The water rose to my shoulders. The runes I’d carved into the cliffs began to pulse again red and black, flickering like the last embers of dying fire. They wanted my blood. The sea always did. I pressed my palm to my chest, to the faint scar over my heart where the blade had failed to kill me. The mark there glowed dimly, like something asleep but dreaming.

Warped in the way scent gets after too much blood has dried on the same stone. There’s a village up ahead. I see it now—low huts, wood-smoked and sagging in places, clustered tight like they’re bracing against the wind. A single chimney coughs thin trails into the air. Firelight flickers behind one window. Too warm. Too still. It should be comforting. It’s not. The warmth feels borrowed like it doesn’t belong to this place—or anyone still living in it. I breathe in. And there it is. Rosemary oil and burned hide.