Rose Thorns & Love Letters

44 ➪ Love, Rosaline

•Camilla•

16/8/1899
Dear Sir Laurent,
I do hope this letter finds you in good health. In regards to the marriage union between yourself and Miss Rachel Kensington, my junior sister, it must be reconsidered for a multitude of reasons. The first being that I have newly discovered feelings I have towards you that my sister does not withhold. Write me back.
Love, Rosaline

_________________

I think I may be going insane. It is possible I have long since reached that stage. It feels like every single feeling I have towards the twisted outcome of my sorry excuse of a life switches off every time I dwell on it.

I have not shed a tear since the day it all happened.

It has been a week.

A week of wondering what was going through my mother's head when the husband she never really loved threatened to take her life. A week of wondering what look was painted across the face of my counterfeit father's face when he did.

A week of wondering how my grandmother was able to so easily end the life of the man that invisibly tormented our family for decades. A week of wondering how she was able to do it when another man was thirsty for the same blood she drew.

A week of wondering why he allowed her do what she did. End the life he wanted to take. Everything he does is intentional. Nothing he does is coincidence nor mistaken. He is calculated and cold.

I have spent a week full of why's, how's and wonders but the one wonder I can't seem to banish from the catastrophe that is my mind is: why did he not pull the trigger?

He should have. He should have ended my life when he could because right now, I feel as though it would be easier to be gone than not. The emotion within my being is so ready to be tipped off the edge, but nothing seems to do the trick.

Not the extra care my friends offer me. Not the pictures and videos that are all things Phoenix. Not the suspiciously heavy necklace hanging from my neck that reminds me of the day he called me the name of mother.

Nothing.

I feel like a walking oxymoron. Well, not particularly walking. I have not been able to leave the spare bed of Aisha's room unless it is for hygienic reasons.

Although I feel numb to the topic, there is a deep hurt in my system that I cannot quite seem to pinpoint. I am in desperate need to release the emotions but I can barely find the moisture in my body to do so.

I adjust my position in the bed as I try to sleep through fourth period for the sixth time. I never did like chemistry class anyway. I asked my friends to come up with a solid excuse for me to be missing so many classes and I am pretty sure I heard Joel talking about tuberculosis.

My heavy eyes peel open when I realise that I will not, in fact, be able to fall asleep as I have been doing just that for the past seven days. As I am just about to throw the heavy duvets off my body and soak myself in a bath, my phone blares.

My heart skips a beat and I do not know if it is because I have fallen accustomed to the fear and possibility of an anonymous caller bothering my life or because a part of me is hoping Phoenix is finally reaching out.

Whatever the reason is, my rapid heartbeat cools as Nancy's name fills the screen. A sudden sadness replaces the relief I feel as I answer the call.

"Hello?" I croak. My throat is dry and I realise that it is the first time that I have spoken in five hours.