Satin Roses

The sound of fear

A hand gripped her arm, pulling her down toward the bed. Her eyes remained on the bloodied hands hanging along the frame of the four poster bed, each lacquered with crimson molasses. Adela's face turned starch white, her body tensing.

"What is it? What is wrong?" Came Peter's voice beside her.

"There, up there" she whispered, afraid to talk. Her finger outstretched, moving to touch the dangling hand in front of her, a stained rose sat embedded in its palm. Peter gripped her shoulders, his fingers digging like knives into her soft skin. She cried out, her lip trembling, "There!" She exclaimed, beyond hysterical. Adela released herself from his grip and sprung out of the bed, her palms falling to the sides of her face. Her back slid against the wall of the corner of the room, her head lowered, shaking from side to side. Peter crawled up beside her, sliding his hands over her temples, lifting her head to look at him.

"There is nothing there, Adela you must calm down it is all right," he reassured her, moving his arms around the trembling women. She did not feel reassured, the fear was slowly delving its way into her mind. She did not feel safe here.

"It is too early in the morning for breakfast, come back to bed." Peter lifted up off the ground, throwing a hand out to her. She hesitated, her fingers hovering just over his palm.

She rose off the ground, her nightgown slid along the floor as she returned to her bed.

She stared at the ceiling, her eyes wide. The hands had disappeared again, as if they were never there in the first place. She rolled on to her side, trying hard to get back to sleep. It were a difficult task. A cold draught filtered under the door and into the room. Her breath escaping in a cold mist, it were far too cold. She sat up, pushing her long fair hair behind her small ears. The mirror across the room stared at her, its reflection haunting. Her eyes narrowed as a dark haired women appeared where Adela sat on the bed. Adela slipped off the bed moving closer to the large golden framed mirror. The women were crying her tears were the shade of a raven. Adela drew up to the mirror, placing a splayed palm upon its cold surface. The women's sad eyes stared up at her, her mouth moving, her words becoming harsher and harsher. All Adela could do was stare, the women ran at her, tapping harshly on the glass. Her face growing wild, she stared past Adela and to the other side of the room. Adela turned her head staring at the frame of the bed again, there were nothing there. What was this women staring at? "What is it?" She whispered, turning her head back to the mirror. The women had gone. Adela ventured back into bed, her heart raced underneath her chest. She pulled the blankets over her body, she were succumbed to instant warmth, the draught too with the women had vanished. It were a very peculiar night. Adela closed her eyes, finally falling to the depths of slumber.

-

Adela twisted the front section of her hair up, pinning it to the back of her head. She pinched her cheeks and followed suit toward the door. Her cream dress shimmered in the morning light, as she walked toward her door. Peter had left the quarters moments ago, returning to his room to get dressed. The handle twisted and opened the door out into the hallway, Adela was released from the room. Peter stood in the hallway, befitted with a black waistcoat, pants and a fitted white shirt, his hair parted neatly. He held out his arm to her. Adela nodded and entwined her arm around his, together they sauntered through the hall and down the stairs. The man in the black suit again welcomed them into the dining hall, breakfast had already been laid out and set up for them. Peter aided her to her seat.

He slid into the chair across from her, his eyes glaring at her. She smiled at him and rested her fingers upon the handles of her cutlery. She hadn't realised how hungry she were, she dived into the plate. Peter watched her amusedly. Adela swallowed and caught his eye.

"I want to apologise for last night, I think I just had an awful dream," she spoke, her eyes lowering back to her almost empty plate. She noticed that Peter had barely touched his food. His mouth parted, "It is quite all right, dreams can make us very vulnerable, particularly nightmares. I am glad you got rid of that awful flower," He said, placing and egg into the gap within his lips.

"Why do you say that? What was wrong with that flower?" She asked, her tone harsh.

"That flower is full of negative energy, and is rather quite ugly, even the name...Rose." His words dripped with disgust.

"I like it, and it has an intriguing name," she said in a matter-of-fact tone. Her knife and fork lay amongst the now empty plate, she lent back in her chair, placing her hands in her lap, "I am curious, how come there are no roses at all in this town?" She asked.

Peter lowered his knife and fork. The man in the suit shifted uncomfortably out the corner of her eye. Peter looked up at her, his eyes blank.

"I have no idea," he said coldly. Adela stared at him confused, his response did not make any sense. She sat and stared at the beautiful portrait on the wallpapered wall opposite where she sat. The gentleman's face looked down at Peter sitting below him, its dark eyes cold. The remainder of the breakfast were spent in silence, and mainly consisted of her admiring the portraits surrounding them. Each displayed a man, women, and a content family. She smiled at each portrait, "Are these portraits your family?" She asked. Peter followed her eyes up to the paintings, a grin appearing upon his mouth, "Yes they are, that is my mother" he said, pointing to the dark haired women in the portrait behind Adela, "That is my father." He turned in his seat, staring at the painting behind him, "And that is of course my entire family," he finished. Adela continued to stare at the beautifully framed portraits. "Where is your family, You don't mind me asking?" She inquired, her big hazel eyes peered at Peter. His body grew tense his eyes darkening. "I do not want to speak of it." He rose from his chair and left her.

The man turned toward her, "He is very sensitive about his family," his voice were heavy and sounded thick with a strong accent. Adela smiled at him, she rose up out of her chair. The man walked to the door. "My name is Charles, if you require my assistance just ring the bell," he said gesturing to the rope beside the door. The door closed shut. She turned to push her chair in, the legs slid along the floor. Adela crossed the room, moving toward the door, her eyes skimmed over the painting beside the exit; a family stared at her, their faces sad. She narrowed her eyes, the man and women both had black tears seeping from their eyes. Adela reached out, her finger colliding with the painting. Where the tears lay the painting was wet.