She was like a rose.

Effervescent, proudly displaying the carefully fabricated folds of her petals, what many would equate to a glistening gem among the emerald greens of her surroundings. The sun shone down as her spotlight as she stood in the lush gardens of her stage. Oftentimes, onlookers would come by to shower her with admiration for her elegance, for what she had been blessed with. But all shows must come to a close, and, without the loving hands of nature, all roses would wilt, and then they would return to the earth, nevermore in their existence.

And so, when the little flower was cut from the shrubbery that she had become so accustomed to and placed in a porcelain vase of a lovely estate, she was quite shaken by her new surroundings. Was this what ‘home’ was supposed to feel like? It certainly did not seem like one. Although she could not decipher why, there was a part of her that found this mystery oddly thrilling, with the thousands of neverending halls, the quiet whispers that would often lurk beyond what she could witness, the bright clap-clap-claps of heeled footsteps whenever someone walked by. 

The hosts had placed her in a room where the sun could shine upon her, changed her water every day, blessed her with the most beautiful murals upon the walls. Every so often, a new face who happened to visit would stop to admire her beauty – rightfully so, as she had put much effort into maintaining her appearance every day. But although the days got shorter, time always seemed to stretch on, each hour a few seconds longer than the last, longer and longer, until the seconds soon became minutes, the days turned into months, and time was wearing down the sweet rose. The murals – beautiful as they were – had seemed to shift in towards her, she noticed. Maybe she was just hallucinating.

But as time went on, the walls shifted closer and closer, and the brightness of the sun became too much to bear, and the water started to taste sickly. Maybe she had gone mad, for she had never found herself struggling to live, yet here she was, heaving at every breath, grasping at even the very idea of life. 

What was once so exhilarating about the secrets of the house now mortified her. She thought of the ever-extending hallways, and the vast room in which she was allocated to, and how her desires to explore the depths of the labyrinth that had so kindly let her in were fading, twisting, turning, revealing more pathways as she constantly searched for the entrance that was no longer there. 

And those footsteps – oh, the footsteps that never stopped pacing, the agonizing clap-clap-clap that she used to anticipate in excitement – now forced their way into the inner depths of her mind, putting her in the silent trance of the screaming voices, that of which never ceased to scream at each other. The steady echo of this wailing song left her no choice but to serve as the unwilling audience, although sometimes she felt they meant for her to listen in. 

It was nauseating to experience, so much so that she did not notice her beautiful, silky petals slowly melt, the deathly plague spreading to the inner regions of her mind, enveloping everything – including the last bits of hope that she had tried so hard to keep close. 

When she finally realized, it was too late.

Perhaps the voices had been trying to help. Perhaps, they were trying to distract or minimize the pain of what was truly happening to her. Because the once-glimmering, scarlet little flower was now a withered shell of her old and glorious self. What had happened? She had tried her absolute best to maintain her image. The once glimmering garnet that so many had stopped by to admire was now wilted, isolated, trapped in the walls of her despair. What was she, if not the living proof that the possibility of perfection was not so impossible? 

She was nothing.

This was the tragedy that Nature herself had so lovingly crafted, so carefully devised. But there was none to argue nor care, for the thick curtains had been drawn shut, and the audience applauded, and the roses were strewn across the platform.

Clap-clap-clap.

Smiling to herself, she waited patiently, knowing she had the support of the spectators, that they would come to her next show, and the next, and the one after, never getting tired of the same script, the same characters, the same somber tale. After all, it would not be long until another young, naive performer would stumble on stage to reenact her play.

But for now, she would have to wait.

Maybe Nature was not kind. But kindness did not matter, for she was the puppetmaster, and all the world was her theatre.