The Monologue of Monoculture

Lord Ashworth’s estate was a monument to manicured mediocrity. Every rose bush stood at precisely the same height, their petals a terrifyingly uniform shade of crimson, as if they’d all been dipped in the same vat of saccharine perfection. It was the kind of place that made Elara’s teeth ache. She found herself standing on the edge of his impossibly neat lawn, a stark contrast to the glorious, untamed chaos of her own discovered garden. Beside her, the magnificent lily, nestled in a surprisingly sturdy terracotta pot she’d rescued from the estate’s overgrown potting shed, seemed to vibrate with a silent, disdainful hum. It was, Elara suspected, judging Lord Ashworth’s entire existence.

“Ah, Elara, my dear!” Lord Ashworth’s voice boomed, echoing across the manicured expanse. He emerged from a ridiculously ornate gazebo, a single, perfect rose clutched in his gloved hand. He wore a velvet smoking jacket the colour of a bruised plum, and his monocle gleamed with an almost sentient malevolence. “I was just contemplating the ephemeral nature of true beauty. A subject, I imagine, that is of particular interest to you, given your… recent horticultural endeavors.”

Elara resisted the urge to scowl. “Lord Ashworth,” she managed, her voice as even as she could make it. “I didn’t realize you were expecting me.”