Roses are Red

Once they were out of sight she slid down the embankment and waded to him. The mud sucked at their feet, pulling them down. She had to walk upright again to keep above the surface. Charles backed against a hollow formed by tree roots. He whimpered. "I wasn't going to do anything," he said, tears running down his mud-streaked face, mingling with the rain. "I wasn't going to hurt you, I swear."

"Of course," said Angela, dragging him to dryer land. She sat down on his chest and ran her fingers through his hair gently, almost lovingly.

"Please don't kill me," said Charles, wincing as one of her claws glanced against his neck.

"When I found my daughter, she was all red."

"What?" said Charles, blinking, bewildered.

"Sarah. My oldest daughter. I came home after work and couldn't find her. I looked all over. I asked my boyfriend where she was, and he wouldn't answer. And that's when I saw that his hands were red." She gripped his shoulders tighter. "I found her in the bathtub. Red everywhere. Red inside the tub. Red all in her hair. I couldn't wash the red out no matter how hard I tried. By the time I was done I had red all over my hands and it wouldn't come off."

Charles closed his eyes "I'm so sorry," he said.

"I am too," said Angela. They were concealed in a copse of bushes at the bottom of a small ravine. It was a good place. Burgundy-red roses sprouted nearby.

"I don't deserve this."

Angela hesitated. "Maybe," she said, turning her head a little. "I can't know for sure, ever. But..." She grabbed him by the throat. "I do have mouths to feed."

She held him under the water until the thrashing stopped. Rain ran in streamers down her pelt and the length of her muzzle. When she felt the body stop moving, she waited, counting to herself. When enough time had passed, she pulled him up again. He flopped around, limp. Satisfied, she dragged him to where the water lapped against the land, and there she bared her claws. Over the rain, there was a ripping sound.

The water turned red.

***

"I'm home," Angela said, closing the door behind her.

She took off her wet coat and shouldered Charles' messenger bag. Her mother looked at her, blinking. "You're soaked!" she said.

"I got caught in the rain. I'm sorry I'm late. I had to stop and get dinner."

She put the bag on the table.

She looked in on Anna, asleep in bed. Then she showered, taking time to scrub the red crust out from under her nails. When she was done she dried Nicolas' book by the heater and read the last page of the story she'd started:

"All the better to eat you with!" the wolf said, but the girl was not impressed. She kissed the wolf on his muzzle and made him sit on the floor, putting a leash and collar around his neck. That night he slept at the foot of her bed, snoring gently. Because she knew she was no one's meat.

Angela laughed, then called Nicolas. "Did you make it home okay?" he said.

"Yes," she said, "but your book got a little wet. I can buy you a new one."

"Don't bother, I have lots more. I wrote it, you know."

She looked at the cover. "Your name isn't on it."

"A pen name." He paused. "Did you like it?"

"Very much," she said, and she was about to say more but then Anna came in. Angela told Nicolas goodbye and set her daughter on her lap. "Did you have a good nap sweetheart?" she said.

Anna nodded and smiled. Her little blue eyes glimmered and her red curls bounced. Then she said, "I'm hungry."

"Me too."

Angela reached into the messenger bag. She took out something red and dripping, and held it to her daughter's mouth.

"Now eat up," she said. "While it's still fresh."