WHEE. SiLVER WROTE ANOTHER STORY. BE AFRAAAiD, iS ABOUT REAL STUFFS. D;

OKAY OKAY THiS ONE iS REALiSTiC. I WANTED TO TRY SOMETHiNG SYMBOLiC AND THUS COULDN'T DO SOMETHiNG TOTALLY FAKE. AND IDK WHAT GENRE iT iS, BUT iT AiN'T SUMETHiN I WOULD NORMALLY WRiTE.
SO. ENJOY SiLVER'S WRiTiNG WHEN SHE'S HiGH.
HEY I WONDER iF THiS ONE iS LONGER THAN THE OTHER ONE...

The Rose


“El, you’re going to slip.”

She said nothing, and continued running back and forth, jumping in the puddles with such consistency you would have thought she’d have gotten tired of it. But she didn’t, and I watched her as she enjoyed splashing the water with her boots; covering the sidewalk with disfigured splotches of water residue.

My gaze drifted to the sky, where the clouds showed their sorrows in their murky color as they bobbed along the horizon. One particular cloud caught my attention as it painfully reminded me of her mother. It was well-rounded, puffy, and alive – but it would be inaccurate for me to describe her as that now.

“Daddy.” She tugged at my jacket.

“Yes, honey?” I replied, my eyes still watching the beautiful cloud.

“Can we go for a walk?”

“In the rain?” I considered it, and then continued, “It would be much safer to walk when it’s sunny out..”

“But we never walk when it’s raining.” She gave me a look, and I reluctantly gave in to her, although in my head I planned a route that would not last longer than five minutes.

Reader, have you ever gone on a walk in the rain?
Have you ever compared the beauty of nature in and out of the rain?

Our pace was slow in order to enable her short legs to keep up with mine. The houses we passed were not particularly attractive; the paint was rotting and the grass was a pale-ish yellow. But if she was happy, I was happy.

We passed more of such houses, as our neighborhood was not particularly wealthy.

“Alright, time to go back.” I told her, after we had walked for several minutes. I turned around and began to stroll back home, when I was brought to a halt by the sudden realization that she was no longer beside me. I admit to a momentary state of panic, until I looked a little further back on the path and saw her standing there, eyes transfixed on something I could not see.

While I did not know the object in particular she was staring at, I could see some possible reasons why. Flowers of all kinds grew in a garden, seemingly uncontrolled, giving it a look of a forest, but a more gorgeous forest than you would ever see in the wild.

Reader, have you ever not noticed something beautiful right away?

Has it made you ponder the question, “However did I not notice this before?”

Has it made you wonder, “What other beautiful things have ceased to notice?”

Good, reader, for those were my thoughts at that moment.



“What is it, honey?” I still asked her.

“Look at those pretty flowers.” She said, head cocked in wonder.

“Which ones do you like?”

“The roses are pretty.”

“I like those too.”

I plucked one from the bush, and held it before her.

“Daddy, isn’t that stealing?”

“I don’t think she’ll notice. And I don’t think she’ll mind at all.”

Although I did not know it, the house’s owner, an elderly woman of a curious ethnicity, was watching us. And, although I did not know it, she smiled as we walked away, one of her roses in hand. And although I did not know it, that was something she had not done in a long, long time.

We put the rose in a jar, and there it forever stayed.


Eventually she went off to elementary school, and every day after school, it was there. Every day of middle school, it was there. And although once she reached high school she never mentioned it, it was always there.

“Wow, Daddy, how long is that thing going to live?” She had asked me one day.

“I don’ t know, honey.”

After confirming she had left, I quietly, and quite stealthfully, locked my cabinet full of flowers.


One day during El’s 7^th year of school, I was contacted by her principal. She told me that my daughter was in the hospital.

Now, as much as I’d like to say that my thoughts as I drove there were “Is she alright?” or something of that kind, I regret to inform you, reader, that I thought no such things.
I was thinking more along the lines of, “Aw crap, did leave the stove on…?”

I arrived and found she had fallen and started bleeding during soccer in her gym class.
It was a close call, but one of her teachers had known about her condition and thus she was brought there immediately.

xxx

“Daddy?” she asked me that evening.

“Yes?”

“Can I…” she hesitated as she spoke, “Can I play soccer?”

What puzzled me was she asked this question as if nothing at all had happened today, and I paused for a moment, giving her an odd look, and I was blank as to what to say.

She looked me in the eyes, a deep stare. Her pupils were holes that opened straight into her soul, her iris a sparkling rainbow of hope, glittering with the entrance of light.

“..Why?” I asked her.

“I liked soccer. I fell, but, it was fun.. And I never get to play.”

I winced as she said this. I was young, and I felt it was all my fault she was sick. This wasn’t a reasonable thought on my part, as I had no control over it nor had the gene come from my side of the family. But I couldn’t help but feel her suffering.

I shifted a little, and reluctantly said to her, “Okay.”


She joined her school’s team, and she loved it. She played it from middle school to the end of high school. She even got a scholarship for her soccer talent.

There were additional close calls. The third or fourth time, I was getting worried and asked her if she was considering quitting. Her reply will forever remain engraved in stone within my head:

“Dad. I’m willing to go through a little pain for what I love.”

So she continued to play. I attended all of her games up until she went away to college. Everyone always told me how amazing my daughter was, how did I do it? And when I lacked the answer they were looking for, they appeared more in awe.

I hadn’t done anything special. I always supposed I was just lucky to have such a great child.

This is exactly what I was pondering when I received the call.


“Hello?”
“Mr. Kyde?”
“This is him.”
“I regret to inform you…”

And they proceeded to tell me the story of my own daughter’s death.

It had been during a play-off game. Some opposing player had kicked the ball into her head, and she consequently had been standing next to a goal post. The force of the ball across her face caused her to fall backwards, hitting her head on the pole.

She died of internal bleeding and brain swelling.



Reader, I apologize, but due to the limits of writing I cannot truly express how I felt succeeding the news. But parenting teaches you things.

Like that my daughter had died the best way she possibly could have.
Doing what she loved.

I attended her funeral, and said my goodbyes.

She lies in her coffin, to this day, wearing her soccer uniform, with a flower next to her.

Because she had always been my rose.

OH OH OH ONE LAST THiNG
DID YOU NOTiCE I LiKE TO KiLL MY CHARACTERS? ?

SILVER, NIEC STORY.

BUT YOU IS FUCKING LAZY. xDDD WHAT'S WITH ALL THE 'xxx'S? FINISH THE FUCKING STORY. xP

TL;DR LOLOLOLOL