Forced to grow her own.

Fifteen years it took for her to culture and graft; to perfect. Just the right amount of sunlight, same of rain, lashings of horse manure. Snipping, trimming; grooming. She'd almost bottled it once.The broom handle he'd rammed inside her vagina, changed her mind.With meticulous care, for it only ever blooms once, she'd tended the bud until it swelled and burst into exquisite flower.The stamens, she'd removed and pounded into pulp, stirring it into his tea.His death was murderously slow as the poison spread, turning his blood to jelly.'Should've bought me roses. They don't cost much.'