Describe a flower with violent fear and loathing

First there was the shame. It mingled with the hangover – the dirty taste, my grubby hair and the clothes from last night. When the delivery came the morning’s retching threatened to overcome me, acidic vomit clawing at the back of my throat. ‘Who’s a lucky girl?’ the receptionists clucked. Both of them came to my desk, practically skipping with glee. I uncurled myself from my slump, unplugged earphones and raised a smile. ‘Who are they from?’ they crowed. ‘I..I don’t know.’ The lie came easily into my head but stuck in my throat, perhaps held down by the nausea and the coating of fur on my teeth. ‘Open the envelope!’ Came the chorus. But there was nothing, so I was saved that indignity at least.

For the rest of the morning the bouquet squatted on my desk. Eleven roses sat firm and upright, their high stalks holding their heads fortunately above my line of vision. The twelfth bud of the dirty dozen had flopped and hung down, taunting me. Its fat bloom was too big and greedy for the wiry stalk. Each time the air conditioning whirred back into life the thick velvety petals tremoured. This caught my eye in the periphery of my computer screen. Against the office greys the deep red stood out like smears of blood, thick and almost black in places. The rose hanging down was the darkest, overripe and flabby. Shadows of veins stood out, criss-crossing messily over the crumpled petals and I imagined I could see them throbbing with sap. Dotted indents of decay clung to the rough hewn edges of the flower. The rot must have been spreading inside, the red outer layers hiding a core riddled with soft putrefying mulch. Perhaps an insect had buried deep inside and lain eggs, waiting to burst out. Scenes from Alien sprang to mind, and the thought of what lay dormant inside me made the sick feeling return. Another gust from the air con exposed the stigma nestled inside the bloated bloom, thick with orange pollen and protruding like a tongue. Mocked by its exposed organs I reached out and tore the stem with a woody snap.

Once the rose lay in my hand I smelt the aroma. Rotten like lettuce left at the bottom of the fridge, or bin juice leaked onto kitchen floors. I closed my fist around the flower, tightening and squeezing until it oozed into a sodden mush. When I opened my hand the petals were bent and limp, and a scarlet dye seeped between my fingers.