There is this eight year old rose bush. Healthy, well-groomed, tenderly taken care of before the moment it began as a seed. Glossy, immaculate, not a single yellowing leaf on its even frame. Someone invested 400 hours of patient trimming, watering, transplanting, feeding into this being, thousands of gallons of water, hundreds of dollars in lighting and heating. Someone fended off bugs from the greenhouse, draped it with a mesh each night, nipped the right buds. All to produce this gorgeous, perfect rosebush. Eight years. A lot can happen in eight years.
Right now it is beaming with flowers in various happy states of life: the fullest peak bloom; the blushing, almost full bloom; the shy, not quite there; and the unopened bud. Perhaps this bush will never reach such a state of perfect beauty again, at least not without another year of dedicated care. But in the present, it is perfect. It's sitting there; how about we take some pictures? It is rare to see such a beauty in any form, alive or lifeless. It is simply so perfect, so captivating, so delicate.
Someone trips and falls into the bush. The bush is destroyed. Its branches lay splayed and torn from the trunk; the trunk has snapped in half. Its leaves are crushed and torn by its own thorns, and the blooms are bruised and some petals are rended away. A lot can happen in a few hundred milliseconds.
The agent of destruction offers to pay for damages, at least. The bush had been appraised at $30. Thirty dollars it is.
The bush is trimmed to the root and left to grow again. Some time later, it blooms again. It looks beautiful again. But that ugly little knob remains at the base; what is it? This bush is beautiful, but it...has scars. The bush could be more beautiful.