SHE BLED LIKE A ROSE

Crimson Petals: A Story of Awakening

Gracie’s body ached—a dull, persistent throb in her legs, her arms, the base of her skull. Pain she couldn’t name, couldn’t escape. Her hair fanned across the pillow like spilled ink, tangled and wild. She tugged at a knot and winced.

Then she saw the blood.

It seeped silently, staining the sheets beneath her in a slow, inevitable tide. The fabric drank it in, turning from white to rust to deep scarlet. Her body had betrayed her, and the room seemed to hold its breath, the walls pressing closer as if witnessing a sacrament.

She lay back, fingers tracing her hipbone where the ache pulsed hottest. The air grew colder.

A flower bloomed inside her. She bled like the earth after rain, like a rose plucked too soon. Her nightdress—once pale as moth wings—darkened, the color of pomegranates, of crushed berries, of something alive and uncontained.

When she opened her eyes, a stranger stood beside the bed. A girl with eyes like wet slate, crying soundlessly.

"What’s wrong?" Gracie asked, though her tongue felt heavy.

"I feel safe with you," the girl whispered. "Like nothing else matters."

Gracie smiled. They moved as one then, arms sliding over shoulders, foreheads touching. The girl’s lips were soft, parting like a secret. The kiss deepened, warm and slow, until Gracie jerked away, heart hammering.

"I can’t—" She scrambled back. "This isn’t— I don’t even know you."

"Does it matter?" The girl’s smile didn’t reach her eyes.

"God says it does."

"God?" A laugh, sharp as a thorn. "Funny. He never mentioned you to me."

Gracie fled. Down the stairs, into the square, where the church bell tolled like a warning. The townspeople surged toward the hall, their whispers a hiss of kindling.

Inside, the girl from her bedroom stood at the pulpit, pointing an accusing finger.

"A witch walks among us!" Her voice dripped honey and venom. "She tried to seduce me—to corrupt my soul!"

"Liar!" Gracie’s shout cut through the crowd. But the mob was already moving, hands clawing at her arms, dragging her to the stake. Hay prickled her ankles as they bound her.

The nuns knelt in a circle, heads bowed—all but one. A woman with sunken cheeks stared up at Gracie, lips curled in a smile. Gracie grinned back, teeth bared.

"Confess!" the girl demanded, torch raised.

"Only to this," Gracie spat. "You’re a coward."

Flames licked her skin. She didn’t scream. The heat was a baptism, peeling away layers of fear, of shame, until she was nothing but light and smoke and understanding.

She woke gasping, sheets tangled between her legs. The room was quiet. No blood. No fire. Just the echo of a question:

"Is this what it means to become a woman?"

The answer hung in the air, fragile as a petal: Yes. And it will hurt. And it will burn. And you will rise from the ashes, again and again, until you’re whole.