Like A Rose

The scientists were talking about Rosie again.

• Rosie liked her own name. It was a little ironic, she thought - she was a tree, not a rose bush, and she wasn’t colourful or flourishing like a rose - but she was hopeful, and the scientists were hopeful that she would flourish like a rose one day. 
• Rosie liked when the scientists talked about her. She would sit in her little flowerpot, still small enough to fit, and they would sit around the table, around her, and discuss her. What the scientists didn’t know yet was that Rosie understood them.
• Rosie may not be like them - she may have her roots buried in the ground, head held high with lots of limbs, grown from seeds, but she knew what they were saying. They had not yet realized that while trees were still a mystery to them, said trees could understand their body language - they could even think, though they didn’t quite have a brain.
• Rosie always told herself everything in clear, sharp sentences, so that she could understand them fully. It was like a list in her head.
• Rosie understood the scientists were discussing the experiment. She didn’t know what it was, but it had to do with her. She wondered what it was.
• They kept turning to look at her, and she liked it. She liked attention. She absorbed every glance and glare like she absorbed water into the soil.
• But this time there was something different: their gazes more worried, unsure, even some melancholy, like they were sad about her. She wasn’t really sure why, but it was bad.
• And then, one day, when the scientists came in particularly sad, and paid direct attention to her, Rosie knew it was time - time for the experiment.
• The scientists gently raised Rosie with such tender caring it almost seemed they did know she could understand this stuff.
• They closed her in a cardboard box with holes in the top, seemingly for air or sunlight, and she saw nothing, staying in there, for a very long time.
• When Rosie almost thought they’d never take her out, the box opened, and they lifted her gently out of the box. She saw they were no longer in the laboratory but on a small island, it seemed. It was a nice place - almost entirely a beach, but most of it - apart from where it touched the water - wasn’t even sand, but earth. Soft, friendly dirt. The air seemed fresh, the sunlight was perfect, it even seemed it would rain very soon, to water Rosie. But there was something wrong, something that should’ve been there but wasn’t.
• They pulled her out of her flowerpot and dug a small hole in the centre of the little island, then carefully covered it up, so that Rosie was planted in its warm earth.
• They said goodbye to her, and she wondered why they were leaving, silently begging them to stay with her; she loved them. But they entered the strange long steel thing with wings. It rose up in the air and flew away, leaving her there.
• It was only then, when she was alone, that she realized that there were no plants or trees. No green life. That was what was wrong. Rosie wondered why.
• She wondered how long she would need to be here.
• The sun made her happy, yet dried her dirt. She felt a deep longing for water, for damp cold earth. Her wish was fulfilled, at night, when light rain drizzled onto the island, soaking deep into her roots, and so was her complete happiness to be here. Even her loneliness couldn’t ruin that perfect moment.
• The sun rose not long afterwards, and the water splashed so nicely onto the rare splotches of sand. The sound was so nice, and Rosie felt almost completely at peace. However, something small tugged at her inside. The beach felt like the kind of place that should have people, swimming around in the friendly water. She wondered why there was nobody there, and if it had to do with why she was there. She felt rather alone.
• At around noon, the rain fell again. Rosie felt nice, and even nicer as a beautiful multicoloured rainbow shined through. Though it was wonderful, she still felt lonely - even more now. She wished she had somebody to share the joy with, but she was alone. She decided the scientists would not be coming anytime soon.
• The sun set, and darkness fell. It seemed strangely pleasing, to see the world quiet and at peace. There was no movement on the island, no wind at all.
• A few hours later, it rained again, like the night before. It rained also at noon, when the world brightened again. Rosie started sensing a repeating pattern - rain at night, rain at noon. Everything felt rather repetitive, in a calm, friendly way.
• A week passed, the same as the one before, and another, and more. Everything stayed the same outside, but not in Rosie. A sense of confused loneliness began growing inside of her, quicker than her own physical growth. She didn’t understand it, not at all. How could she be lonely when it was so beautiful?
• As more time passed, Rosie began appreciating what she was seeing again. She had seen the scenery so many days, always the same, like a painting - repetitive, still, unmoving. She wasn’t sure how long she had left herself, as the feeling of being alone was growing, growing. She wanted to appreciate it as much as she could. The earth was so fresh and wonderful, the seawater welcoming, the sun bright and enthusiastic. Rosie’s state was deteriorating, and she felt like she was dying. It began to affect her physically - perfect sun and frequent rain weren’t the only things that kept a plant alive. She was getting worse and worse, the loneliness soaking in just like the rain.
• One year after the scientists left Rosie, they returned, and were sad to see a tree, a lot larger than it was when they left it, but not as colourful. It was brown, leaves crispy and droopy. Rosie had died. The sun and rain had treated her well, but isolation hadn’t.