The roses were stepped above the lip of the clear, glass vase. Each climbed a deep-crimson petal cluster above another. A small girl sitting on a chair had been staring at them for an undetermined amount of time, studying their delicate patterned veins and slightly burnt edges.
A barely audible sigh escaped her – so slight the sound – so still she sat.
“Cathy, Cathy…where are you?” A high-pitched child’s voice broke the silence. From the hallway, a door slammed.
Feet slapped against the hardwood floor until they found the carpet of the dining room. It was there that the thick pile of the rug muffled the sound.
“Cathy, why don’t you come outside and play?” Nicolas moved towards his sister whose wide, blue eyes never left the flowers.
“I don’t want to, Nicolas.”
The young boy pulled a heavy chair from the oak table watching the lace tablecloth crawl across the seat. He climbed up and knelt, elbows on the table.
“Come on, Cathy.” He wiggled to get comfortable. “What’s wrong?”
Cathy pulled her stare from the roses to regard Nicolas’s deep brown eyes. “Nothing.”
“Are you tired, Cathy? I heard Daddy in your room again when it was really late.” Nicolas reached across the table to pull the vase close and touched one of the closed buds. His contemplation trapped by the moist flower.
“Yes, Dad was in my room.”
Nicolas broke a petal from the bud and held it in his chubby fingers. “Is that why Mom was so mad?’
Cathy’s vision seemed to clear as she stared at her curly-haired brother. “What do you mean, Nicolas?”
Nicolas, loosing interest in the petal, dropped it on the white lace. “Mom was yelling at Dad when I got up. Didn’t you hear?”
“No.” The solemn single syllable possessed finality.
Cathy watched as Nicolas moved the vase back to the center of the table. Her eyes locked on the gentle flowers as the stems shook them. “Where is Mom, Nicolas?”
Nicolas climbed off the chair. “She’s sleeping.” He started to leave the room.
“Wait, Nicolas. Where’s Dad?”
Nicolas flipped the light switch frequently, watching the strobe effect on the roses. “He’s in the garage fixing the lawn mower.”
“Nicolas, go play in your room.” Cathy’s stare never left the rose’s deep red color.
“OK, but will you come play school with me?” The excitement of the idea shook Nicolas’s curls.
“Yes, in a little while, Nicolas. In a little while. Why don’t you go and get everything ready?
The sound of running feet was followed by the step-to-step climb of the young boy climbing the stairs. Then his bedroom door slammed shut.
Cathy reached slowly over to touch an open flower. Her delicate fingers wrapped carefully around its fragile beauty. With eyes locked on the blood red flower, she pursed her thin lips and deliberately crushed the gentle rose.
In her other hand, lost in the folds of her pale gray dress, she held tightly to the cold blue steel of the loaded handgun. The petals broke and fell to the patterned lace.