Rose's Love

Rose

(Edit: 05/11/2019)

There was a time where it was just me. It was short, lasted no more than three days, and in that time I was alone like I hadn't been for a while.

I carried on as if nothing had happened; I made breakfast, lunch and dinner. I read and I knitted — I still had that scarf to finish for him; I remember him saying the weather had gotten bitter recently — and I breathed.

  As the nights went, he'd come down, I'd fix him his drink and place the dinner in front of him before placing mine. I'd ask him how his day was, he'd ask me and the reply would always be the same; 'it was alright.'

Once he was finished, he'd kiss me on the cheek and I'd smile and say goodnight, and then he'd leave. I would wash up silently, knit a bit more, breathe a little more; and as time went on, it got easier to ignore.

The slight tingling sensation on my cheek, where lips pressed tenderly against flesh; the curling of something in the pit of my stomach; the way my body shivered and shook; the longing, the craving. It was harder but I even ignored the heart-squeezing hate, the tremble of love and the confusion that came with both.

I practised and soon ignorance became a habit. I, instead, focused on my time, the only time I got to myself.

The next day, as tends to happen, the routine continued on with only one, slight disruption; the talk of Poppy.

'I've found Poppy,' he would say, his lips twisted in that soft smile, eyes unfocused as his mind stayed with Poppy. 'She's waiting though, so patiently, for someone to rescue her.' And I knew, he'd be the one.

He always was.

I'd smile and nod. I'd ask for a description of her; this was important, after all. He'd describe her — hair as red as fire and eyes that shone with an innocence that seemed so wrong in such a downtrodden girl — and he'd describe her with that grin sharpened with excitement, like a child ready for the toy he knows he deserves.

'She was perfect,' he'd tell me and I would nod, listen, agree. I got so used to listening but never really taking it in. I'd try. I would always try but the things I ignore, sometimes, are stronger and they get through that barrier of ignorance, forcing me to look upon them, digest them.

Hurtlongingdisbeliefhurt.

It was always so much, too much.

At some point, he would stop that topic of conversation — because we both know he'd never stop if he didn't now — and finish his dinner. He decides he wants to watch a movie, so I nod. He picks the movie as I wash up and then I sit beside him on the clean sofa.

Halfway through the movie, his arm would wrap around my shoulders to pull me in closer, and I'd lie my head down onto his shoulder. It would always feel as if my world had finally balanced right, then. I could breathe, properly. I no longer felt as if I was underwater, drowning as an invisible hand drags me further down by the ankle.

And as my heart aches and eyes sting, I bury my head deeper into him and focus on that barrier of ignorance.

The movie finally finishes and as he gets up, he bids me goodnight and leaves with nothing more than a tender kiss on the cheek as his departing gift.

A switch flips and the barrier goes up further. I find I'm not tired and I know he won't be coming down anymore tonight, so I grab my book and my knitting basket and make my way to the bedroom. I knit for a bit and when that gets tiresome, I read for a bit more.

I ignore everything around me (him) and breathe because he makes me think and thinking hurts too much.

He hurts me so much.

*****

It's on the third day the cellar door opens and instead of him, Poppy enters, the new one. She's frantic — 'Calm her down when she arrives' — and tears run down her cheeks. She keeps sniffling because everything just keeps falling down; she's trapped and she probably realised it before the car door even slammed shut.

She's weak, that's obvious.

I grab the tissue box and calmly walk over, making sure to keep my steps loud enough to hear but not startle. Predictably, she scrambles back anyway, blurry eyes taking in the other stranger forced into her life.

I smile. It tends to reassure most of them.

She sniffles but before she can say anything, he comes down the stairs. She turns so she can keep myself and him in her line of sight, and she seems determined to stay as still as a statue- until he gets closer, and then she's behind me faster than lightening.

I wrap my arms around her, reassuring, securing, trapping; and I turn to him as he tells me to explain to her, this Poppy — the new one —, that she needs help (train her well) and that she needs to calm down (learn her place in this family).

As routine goes, I promise with a nod and a sweet smile, and he takes it in with a smile of his own; a grimace to others. He kisses my forehead and then he's gone, the click of the door echoing in my mind.

The barrier snaps up, tightening.

I turn to her, smile still on my face but softened, and guide her to the sofa. I reassure her everything's fine, she's fine — 'But am I safe?!' — and then tell her to go and change in the bedroom; her clothes have already been laid out on her bed. They're clean.

She goes as if afraid of what may happen if she doesn't, and when she comes back she's clean and beautiful. Like a flower.

When he comes back down to see her calm and ready (learntherplace), he smiles at me, grasps my hand and tells me he loves me. I've done a good job.

He stands me up and guides me to that room, and I ignore my heart thundering against my ribcage; it's only nerves, excitement maybe (fearhatefearhate). Poppy sits there, stiff as a board but her eyes follow with a wide panic, nothing my smile can get rid of.

She'll grow used to it though. He'll fall in love with Poppy and she with him, and she'll realise this isn't bad. He loves us and he just wants to show us that. There's nothing wrong with that.

Her eyes are begging me to see and the door shuts, blocking her out, and as he lays me on the bed, the barrier wobbles.

It doesn't break.