Once upon a time in a land far, far, away in a very small town hidden away, lived a young girl named Victoria and her famous and beloved blood red roses. Now, when we say blood, you might think to yourself it is just a color; however, that is not the case with Victoria’s roses. Our story begins in the small town of Rottenburg, now do not let the name fool you, everyone in Rottenburg was so painfully perfect and sweet. Everyone except Victoria, who was not so sweet and perfect, she hated people, she lived all alone in her quite little house with its perfect garden and chipping paint. Victoria was only ten years old, and many wondered where her parents and baby brother had gone.

Some said she murdered them in their sleep and buried them in her garden, others said they ran away because little Victoria was just too scary. No one really knew and after awhile people had just forgotten about her family completely, now Victoria did not want to be forgotten about like her family, so she began to send blood red roses to the townspeople. Soon everyone knew who little Victoria Brighton was, and as much as Victoria hated people, she loved the fame. Every week she would send dozens of her special roses to the townspeople and every week someone new disappeared and no one knew where they had gone, and soon they to were forgotten. Of course Victoria knew where the people had gone, as did her queer little cat, Shadow.

One day, when all the roses had been sold for that week, a beautiful young woman wanted some of Victoria’s roses so badly she went to the queer little house on the hill where Victoria lived. “How do you get your roses so red?” asked the woman, as she looked the dozen rose bushes over, each covered with many blooming buds, Victoria stood smiling, he black hair tied up in two pigtails with re ribbons, a black skirt fell just past her knees, in her arms Shadow sat leaning against her blood red shirt.

“Would you like to see?” she asked with a twinkle in her grey eyes, the woman nodded happily and Victoria led her to a pink garden shed. It was quite dark inside and the woman was hesitant to enter; however she did anyway. As light slowly filled the small room a loud shirk filled the air, scattered about the shed were legs and hands and heads and axes and knives and blood, it was a horrific site and the woman wanted nothing more then to escape, when she turned to run Victoria was standing in front of her, a smirk on her lips and a bloody knife in her small hand. The woman screamed one last time as pure red blood splattered onto Victoria’s lacey white socks. The next day the village rejoiced at the site of the new roses and no one ever noticed the woman was gone. And so it went on, the roses came and the people disappeared and were forgotten, however Victoria was never forgotten; she made sure of that.