Rose Reaper's Toll

A mirror on the wall. An image to see. Quite alarming, quite grim, a reflection of me. Nothing on my face, no skin and no flesh, only bone and blood that drips down my chest, and forms a gown, sticky, red dress, it's crooked, crude seams tell a story of fate, and what terrors may lie at reaper's tin gates. Upon hollow cheekbones, white roses are painted, with no lips and no tongue, comes no explanation. An appearance behind me, humanoid creature, incubus, cherub, its purpose well known, however intent far more obscure. A crown of peach roses sits atop its head and a bouquet of black ones lie against its chest. A trade. An exchange. It comes with a price. I was willing to pay, eleven yellow roses was the toll that day, forlorn a misery, I fall one short. No exception. No saving, and like my face, all the skin peels like paper and wilts to the floor. The flesh falls like petals, a bare carcass I stand. A skeleton. A stem. Dead, conscious I stay. For the rose reaper’s toll, I could not pay.