Painting the Rose IEyes open, fluttering in the sparse light filtering in through the trees. Weak and shaking limbs help to lift her up so she is seated. Blue eyes now accustom to the light her surrondings now come into focus. Dead black trees lift bare branches that extending from pitiful withered trunk up toward a red tinted sky with dark clouds floating along to cover a blood red sun. The light never fades, never changes, bathing the forest and everything around Alice in blood. Slowly she pulls herself forward and onto her knees. Blood rushes to her head and she collapses back onto her side.Painting the Rose I
“Where am I?”
