Creative Writing "The Last Mile In The Rain"

The Last Mile In the Rain He picked the rose at dusk, just as the sky was beginning to turn deep shades of crimson and orange. Dark clouds roamed, grey and threatening inside, their edges tinged with purple and red. It looked as if the coming night would bring rain, but he doubted it. The rose had been growing outside his house, on a vine that climbed up a trellis, winding in and out of …

…his eyes. His body felt wet and sticky. He glanced out the window. The rain had stopped, and the moon had risen. He clasped his hands together, and realized he was unconsciously rubbing the insides of his wrists with his thumbs. It was a good night for a bath. The rose laid on top of her grave, in the moonlight. It sat in the dirt, still wet, drops of rainwater clinging to its red petals.