The Rose

He leaves a rose each and every time.

In the beginning, the rose is creamy white, pristine, pure.

But when he leaves it, it is splashed crimson, no longer pure.

It’s become more like his icon, his calling card; the lone sign that identifies him as the culprit.

It’s his pleasure in a sick, twisted sort of way.

He grins, throwing his nth white rose at the body he is about to leave behind.

The blood seeps into the petals easily and he smiles.

Murder is an art and this is his way of putting his signature on the masterpiece.

image credits to naked-in-the-rain @ deviantart