Her Songs to a Rose

Preface

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Preface

We all have lives, but like they all say, music is the way to ignite, burst our hearts with passion, break the chains and let go.  

My camera clicked, capturing the ocean waves crashing onto the jagged rocks, the afternoon sun dappling the rough surface with specks of gold, a tranquil scene, perfect for me. Letting go of the camera, I felt the slight “thud” as it fell back against my chest, along with the beating of my heart and the wind raking its nails through my lanky hair. 

Music was blaring through my cracked headphones, the cries of the tormented souls drowning out even the loudest shrieks of children splashing their bare, sandy feet in the foamy tide. 

I felt a sudden chill as I heard a distant slamming of a wooden door, and then the shrill screech of mother’s voice calling my name over and over again. 

“Iva…Iva? Ivalede? Ivalede? Get over here.” 

Sighing, I dropped my headphones and camera into a dirt coated carrier bag, and hid it in its usual spot under the rose bush. She never liked to see those.  

Quickening up my pace, I picked my way across the distorted rocky floor, and pulled my thin, lifeless white blond hair to the front. Pushing open the wooden door cracked by the July heat, I reminded myself to fix the broken hinges before mother finds out. 

“Iva? Come Iva” Mother susurrated, a slight slur warping her voice, her white hair hanging down her waist, blowing gently as the breeze ruffled it. 

I cautiously made my way to mother, praying that she wasn’t in one of those moods. As I peeked into her room, everything seemed calm, but even just the sight of me might set her off any minute, so I stayed outside, shuddering despite the summer humidity. 

Looking at her now, with a bottle in her dry, wrinkled hands, a drooping expressionless face framed by twisted, stringy grayish white hair, limply hanging over her, I could hardly imagine her as a 15 year old like me. But I guess everything has its time, and then it dies. 

“Ivalede, get your useless face over here.” Mother’s voice sounded drowsy, but even as a drunk, the commanding impatience took control of her low voice with fury. 

I could hear my heart beating through my ragged blouse, the dull pounding sending adrenaline coursing through my frail body. Putting on a brave face, I stepped into mother’s room; the murky smell of beer, with a tinge of her perfume was perpetually hanging in the air. 

“Ivalede. Come over.” Mother beckoned with her rusty nails. 

I held my breath, and picked my way across the floor, dirty clothes strewn across, and made my way to Mother.  

“What is wrong Mother?” I asked, my voice coming out weaker than I meant it to be. 

I don’t know what I had done wrong, but Mother’s face contorted with anger, her green eyes blazing like some fool had tossed gasoline onto a dying flame. 

“Look at me Ivalede.” Mother whispered, 

Vigilantly, I raised my eyes to meet hers, cringing in pain, as her palm abruptly connected with my face, knocking me off my feet. The porcelain cup soaring from my hands, and as I scrambled to reach for it, Mother knocked me down with another slap, the deafening sound, merging in with the reckless shatter of porcelain. 

“Stupid fool, no wonder your daddy did not want you. Do I want you?” Mother always looked straight through me; it was like she couldn’t see me at all. 

“Answer me. Do I want you?” Mother screeched, her voice getting higher and higher. 

“No mother. No. Mother does not want me.” I whispered, trying to blink the welling tears away. 

“Get out.” Mother howled, crumpling back onto the rotten mattress, as she drained the last of her energy. 

As I scurried out of the door, I doubtfully tossed one careful glance back, only to see mother’s eyes leaking tears, like a flame finally reaching its end. Catching me staring, Mother wiped at her face, and glared at me, again, the flame ablaze and burning. And then closed her eyes.