Rose
December 5, 2017
The fire crackled, its flames licking up and scorching the wooden logs that lay nestled in the large stone fireplace. Rose lay her head against the mantel, the cool of the stone contradicting the heat from the flames. Her left hand lay listless at her side, while her right clutched her fourth glass of whiskey.
"I'm so, so sorry, Rose."
Rose didn't respond.
Sorry. Everyone was suddenly so sorry. Were they sorry when they took her life into their hands? Were they sorry when they let her live a lie? Were they sorry before they got caught?
Rose remained mute as the voices around her continued to tell her just how sorry they were. Rose remained still as hands brushed against her arms, shoulders, sides, trying to stir some life back into her, trying to make her feel just how sorry they were. Rose remained emotionless as those voices cracked and tears were spilt.
The fire continued to crackle away, those flames oblivious to the troubles unfolding around it. Rose blinked, her eyelids scratching like sandpaper across her dry and burning corneas.
With one quick, practiced chug, Rose emptied the rest of the whiskey. Letting her grasp loosen, the glass slipped from her hand and smashed into pieces on the floor.
Only then did the room finally go silent and the touches halt. And only then did Rose make a sound.
With a cry that ripped through her chest and bellowed out of her throat, a cry that resembled a mother who had just lost her child, Rose fell to her knees in the pile of broken glass. Sobs wracked through her chest, her salty tears mingling with the blood on the carpet.
Only then did Rose realize just how sorry she was.
Three Months Earlier
The chilled autumn air whipped itself around Rose Aleksandrov, nipping at her exposed skin as she made her way towards her favorite coffee shop. Ma's Cinnamon Café, with its bright red door and dark brick walls, sat nestled on the corner of Pearl and St. Bernard Street, overlooking the mighty river that cut its way through the tiny town of Riverside, Maine.
Ducking her chin into her red plaid scarf and stuffing her hands into the pockets of her cardigan, Rose walked slightly hunched over, trying to protect her wind-chapped skin from any further damage. Reaching the small café, she used her shoulder to push the door open and rushed inside, sighing in relief as the warm smell of coffee invaded her senses.
Tucking a stray piece of brown hair behind her ear, Rose's sea green eyes scanned the dark wooden tables until she spotted the chestnut-haired woman sitting in the corner.
With her nose in a book and her bright red high heels tapping away at the floor, Mirella Nikolaidis looked every bit the frazzled brained college student. When in reality, the mid-twenties woman was an aspiring photographer, always trying to snap pictures of Rose when she wasn't paying attention.
And Mira had never even stepped foot onto a college campus. Not once.
Rose walked up to her best friend, taking in her naturally straight hair pulled up into a messy bun that only she could make cute, smudged makeup, and bright yellow jacket. Mira was the only woman who could look the complete opposite of put together, yet effortlessly gorgeous at the same time.
"It's about time you showed up." Mira huffed, setting her book down as Rose slid the wooden chair out from the table and sat down.
"Don't act like you being thirty minutes early makes me late." Rose shot back, crossing her arms over her chest and resting her back against the chair.
YOU ARE READING
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