I was the queen of my lady’s garden. Her most wondrous, beloved flower. She adored speaking to me during pruning, and because I hung on her every word, I learned early on that I was special. She assured me I was the very symbol of love, but at the same time, that I could wound—hearing this, I both blushed and sharpened my thorns. Although I couldn’t feel suffering myself, I loved to take advantage of this peculiar gift of nature. Not that I didn’t sympathize with humans. I simply idolized the sweetness of their blood.

My lady showed me off to all her astonished guests. At no other spot in the garden did they pause for so long. They would stop, lean over, and for the most part fail to resist the temptation to touch me. I cunningly arranged my thorns to make them undetectable to the average person, lightly pricking the pads of their fingers. Many didn’t even notice; others pressed the barely visible wounds quickly to their lips. Best of all was later, when I spent hours savoring the taste of the tiny droplets of blood clinging to my thorns.

My lady never discovered my secret.

***

That day began with powerful gusts in the garden. I didn’t like being tugged by the wind. It’s very unpleasant knowing that such a mighty force exists, impossible to resist. I was afraid for my delicate petals, that I would be disfigured if the wind tore away even one.

            As the wind began to die down, my lady ran into the garden. She was distraught. Her body shook as she screamed. She cried. She stopped above me, knelt, and lightly touched my dewy stem with a quivering palm. For the first time it entered my head that it might be worth trying, after all…I’d never pricked my lady before, never sampled her blood.

I hadn’t yet succeeded in throwing off this treacherous thought, when something strange occurred. I heard an awful crash, and my lady fell right to the ground beside me. From her head a wide stream rose—God, I’d never seen so much blood in all my life! I wasn’t able to stop myself: my deep roots started to fish the delicious confection out from the soil, while into myself I absorbed several pure drops running along my stem. My lady’s blood was the sweetest in the whole world. 

            Some time later a crowd gathered. They shot pictures, argued. And they took my lady.

            That wasn’t the worst of it. On the second day a mournful fellow crept into the garden, and without deliberating too much, he squatted, muttered something beneath his nose, and cut me. Immediately I lost connection with my roots; in the place where moments before I had been growing, I caught sight of a low stub of stem. In rage I longed to stab the vile man, but he was wearing gloves.

***

I am now with my lady once again—lying between her clasped palms. I feel weakened, and while my thorns were able to pierce her hard, cold skin, they didn’t find even a droplet of blood. My lady lies without moving and isn’t interested in me at all. Many people approach and bend low over us. They are different from the people in the garden, who were sincerely amazed by me. These are clothed in black, sobbing, unwilling to speak even a word.

Because of this I am relieved when at last the lid falls over my lady with a click. 

--Translated from Polish by William Badger. This story first appeared as “Ja, Róza” in the December 2009 issue of Science Fiction Fantasy i Horror.