I have always hated roses. They remind me of him: unoriginal, thoughtless and woefully conceited. Luring you in with their superficial beauty, stinging you when you get too close.

The wheelbarrow trundles along the dirt. The uneven weight forces me to constantly adjust my footing. Darkness closes in; even the sun cannot bear to be witness to my act.

Once I reach the hole, I pause for a moment, wiping the sweat off my brow. I look at the overflowing contents in front of me. A bouquet of red roses lie on top of a shrouded lump. These were the last flowers he had given me. The final gesture of apology.

“I’m sorry” he lied, “I’ll never do it again.”

Blinded by his arrogance, he was unaware that his deceit no longer fooled me.

I tip the wheelbarrow forwards, grunting with the strain. Crimson petals litter the hole. A loud thud sounds as the lump hits the dirt. I stare into the abyss.

The roses are dead.

And so is he.