The walls, the ceiling, the floor were covered in blooming white Christmas Roses. The furniture was drowning underneath the heavy scented flowers. Wreaths of Christmas Roses were wound around the posters of Honeysuckles bed, and a sea of white petals was forming a canopy above.
Honeysuckle was lying on spotless white sheets, her ebony-black hair fanned out across the pillow, her skin was as light as freshly fallen snow, the slightest hint of blood tinged her pale lips. She looked as if she was peacefully asleep, free from any pain. Her hands were lying folded across her breasts, and in them she was holding, opposed to the lavish decoration that covered her room, a brown, withered, dead flower that was only just distinguishable as a Lily.
Although this was not my intention at first, this story developed into mirroring my thoughts about illness and death.
I wrote it while my Mum was terminally ill with cancer.
