The Garden

The front gate was ornate, steel wrought and plated with extravagant designs of gold leaf. The tall stone gateposts each held a stone flowerpot overflowing with bloated, sick-red blooms. Fat tendrils curled sinuously about each pillar. A girl stood curiously by the gate. The old mansion that had once looked over the vast gardens had now been swallowed by them. They had pulled down the house piece by piece, wrenching and ripping, dismembering the once-proud building until it was no more than a crumbled ruin. The girl considered the gate, with almost comical seriousness. After a few moments of silent contemplation, she walked up to the gate, and unhesitatingly slipped through the bars.
They say you choose your own fate;
And that is what the girl has done. There are still skinny cobbled paths through the gardens, overhung by crooked trees. She takes the one that winds its way between thick holly bushes, heavy with their ruby berries, their sleeping berries. Their fragrant branches brush past her, hoping to tempt her with the poisonous fruit. But she is not hungry, and she walks on past the gripping spiked leaves.