This is something new for me...tell me what you think.
"Life has taught me not to enjoy flowers. The fragrance, the beauty, the colors—nothing appeals to me. Their enjoyment has been ripped away. In many ways, the flower is a symbol of my life. She starts off growing rapidly, but prematurely her life is taken and she is forced to exist only partially, and without a soul until her slow demise and escape from life…one without the joy and the color she so longed for. She yearned to have that beauty, that life, but where has it gone? She is merely a few petals floating in the wind, drifting off somewhere and her story will never be known to the world. You see, flowers represent a lot of things to me. The flower is beauty, happiness, it is love, and it is life, but don't be mistaken by all of these things for she too is evil and the vanity, tragedy, hatred, and death follow her like all of those things that are attracted. Now let me tell you the story of the girl that hates such beauty and deceit." To speak of the story would leave her tongue dry and it would soon be forgotten. Slowly, she reached her hand across the worn wooden desk and grabbed a pen. She would finish if it took her to her death. Pursing her lips together and drawing her eyebrows closer making the wrinkles that the pain had brought more prominent, she began to recall moment by moment the reason for her hatred. That sick hatred she held towards flowers would be stirred again, the sadness would come seeping into her life from the deepest places where she kept it locked up. Maybe though, it would be good for her, good for her to recognize life again and not just the insincerity she carried out day after day, but oh, how hard it was to bring back to mind. She sank her pen deep into the page, almost enough to tear the paper. The black ink suddenly grew into strange lines, her hand not controlled by her mind, but by the pen that would not stop writing—her story began. Her fingers may stiffen, her hand may cripple, but she would not stop until it was finished because she did not know how much longer she would have for completion. The salty water slowly ran from her face to create welts on the page running the ink into dark, strange pools swirling, looking much like the enraged waters during the time of a storm.