I killed him. I killed him but my anger remained. We were young when he defiled us. Leaving us to rot in the garden as fertilizer. The roses were far healthier that year.

My sisters had long since passed on, they ushered me to join them, even nudging me in their ghastly forms. But I remained. For my anger was far too great to withstand. It simmered in my soul like potent rot. I was plagued. Not by despair, not by spite or attachment. Rage. Years passed and I bided my time. I’d spent so long in the garden I became attached, it was as much my home as it was my grave. I’d viciously attack men that resembled him but they all got away. I was weak. So I settled for warping their minds and using roses to lash their skin and scrape their dignity.

The priests were never strong enough to berid of me. Their words hurt stung me, yet I remained. They rebuked me, denied my very existence. Am I truly a demon? Is that how far I’ve fallen? No. He was the demon. He who stripped me of my autonomy and the life I rightfully deserved. And so I kept waiting. Human fear and superstition fed me, made me stronger. The graze of my fingers began prodding the flowers as if gentle wind ruffled them. I could just barely see my reflection in the pond. Mother always called me beautiful. But now my beauty was warped, haunting.

My flesh now paled, draped across my bones like silk and my delicate hair had become a maine of vengeance. What was far more jarring were my eyes, once brown pools of soil had become lilies, their petals sprouting across my face. Vines replaced my veins and the smell of flowers accompanied my presence. I became the garden itself. But the rage had consumed me, distracted me from appreciating what my defiance made me. A beautiful monster.

Then he came. My anger simmered but the years began to eb at it. Until I saw him again. He’d grown old but his skin retained a certain glow. By his side was a woman prettier than he deserved, clinging to him by the arm. But she flinched each time he turned to her. His smile was as crooked as ever, further warped by age which racked his handsome features. By his leg was a boy no older than 12. I wanted to stop myself, to think rationally. Was I any better than he? He who took my innocence and my life? It was then I realized, I didn’t care.

Blood curdling screams graced my ears. I felt it, joy. Joy, as I carved his flesh asunder. Joy, as I stifled his pleas with petals. Reds, blues, pinks and purples. Beauty. The Earth became my canvas and his blood, an instrument. I found myself laughing. They heard it, I was alive enough to be heard, to be seen. And by whatever God sat above, I hope it hurt. I made sure it hurt. I didn’t question what I became but I questioned my anger. I was still angry. And as I turned from my carnage, his wife and son looked…relieved. It was then and only then did I realize my purpose.

To purge men who defile, men who destroy, and men who kill. If they insisted on plaguing the Earth then I would be the Earth that devours them. I would hunt them all.