*Today's #fridayflash is inspired by writing prompt 287 at Creative Writing Prompts: Use these two metaphors in a poem: "an inch of scorn" and "a cradle of beliefs." Since I'm not much of a poet, I've decided to make it a prose piece with these two metaphors.*
I scooped up the rose's head and held it in my palms.
Thorny stems poked from the water-filled vase, except the one flower in his hand. He rolled it between his thumb and forefinger. His eyes narrowed within an inch of scorn at the last complete rose. His fingers enclosed the bud, and he ripped it off.
Petals floated to the linoleum like fat, red raindrops.
He grabbed my shoulders and forced me to my feet. His breath reeked bitter-sweet of whiskey with a hint of cigarette smoke. He always drank, but I didn't know he'd taken up smoking again.
"I thought you quit," I said, my voice soft.
His backhand followed by a grunt was my answer.
My knees struck the floor again. I smelled the roses. They were better than his breath.
Heavy boots clomped through the house. The sound drifted until followed by the squeaking bed. He'd sleep off his anger.
Things would be better in the morning.
Tears didn't quench my burning cheek. I opened my fingers to the crumpled rose. A cradle of beliefs crushed.