Black Rose

Sweet lies.

Gwen came to see me first, with a new roll of bandages and a body covered in blossoming bruises.

She didn't look at my face when she came in, and though I tried to speak to her, she didn't respond. She wrapped my skin with bandages, nimble and gentle, determined to leave as soon as she could.

I asked her as she was finishing wrapping my torso.

"Did you tell me the truth about Amelie?" I asked her, and she froze.

She looked up at me, the bandages in her hands shaking ever so slightly. The moment stretched out, long and painfully tense, and I held my breath. Finally, she spoke.

"No."

Her voice was quiet, and the moment the word passed her lips she looked away, returning to the task at hand. I stared at her, not knowing what to say or what to ask. Eventually, I forced the only question I could mutter.

"Why?"

She didn't answer. She finished wrapping my body and rose, turning and leaving without another word. I thought about following her, but I didn't know what else I could say, so I let her go.

Alone once more, I laid down and clenched my eyes shut to keep the tears from falling down.

My head spinning, my heart heavy, I started thinking about home.

My mother and I, sitting in the sunroom, knitting together. She taught me how to knit when I was little, her hands gentle and loving as she showed me how to do it.

She knit blankets and hats and gloves for the church drive, to give to homeless people who were in need. When I was good enough, I joined her effort, and we would knit together for hours on end, mostly just in silence, but occasionally filling the gaps with easy conversation.

We hadn't been knitting so much lately. It was just too hard not to argue.

But one day, we put aside our arguments and let ourselves just peacefully knit. I was knitting a sweater, using mustard yellow wool.

It was one of the good days, and easy conversation fell in between us. She told me about the women in her bible study, and some of the things they spoke about. I listened, and then told her about the kids in my book club at school, that were similar.

We talked about deer, and how few of them we had seen around that season, and she asked if I remembered when I was little, and she and my dad had taken me to a nice restaurant and I had cried so hard because one was mounted on the wall. It was a funny memory, and we laughed together.

It was a good day.

There were always good days mixed in. Just as there were always bad days.

When we were taught about date rape in grade 10, we were also taught about domestic violence and were encouraged to reach out if it was affecting our lives. They said that no matter how much you loved someone, if they hit you and used violence against you, you needed to speak up. I knew it was a lesson to all of the girls, but I felt as if when the teacher told us that, she was speaking directly to me. I was torn, not knowing what to do. I didn't want my parents to go to jail or anything. I didn't want them to get in trouble. Not to mention it was never truly their fault. I was only punished because of my own mistakes. The whole lesson caused an internal war to wage in my mind for days. Did I speak out, or stay silent?

Finally, I convinced myself to telling Jordan. She had her suspicions, I was sure, but I always kept my bruises hidden from her, and avoided talking about my parents. I organised to go out with her, to go on a picnic alone, and told myself I would tell her.

Yet when we got to the park and sat down, I avoided the topic once more, and we talked about everything else but that.

When I got home afterwards, my mum was acting sweet and caring, and any traces of my confession flit out of my mind. It was a good day.

Jordan found out eventually.

Christmas eve when I was about to turn seventeen, my mum found a photo on my phone of Jordan kissing my cheek, and she beat me so much I almost passed out. Afterwards, she and dad left, to go to the Christmas Eve church service. I'm not sure what they told their church friends about where I was. Perhaps no one asked. Aching with pain and racked with sobs, I crawled across the room to the home phone and called the only other number I knew.

Jordan's.

Even though it was Christmas Eve, she came over straight away, and I told her everything that had happened. She told me that I had to go to the authorities, that my parents deserved to be locked up, but I argued. I couldn't betray my family like that. I didn't want to be the girl with the broken home. She told me she would go to the police herself, and I begged her not to. Eventually, she relented.

"Come stay with my family for the next few days." She pleaded with me. "Let your mother cool off. Let her know that you are not okay with her pushing you around."

I agreed to this. I wanted to get away from my parents. I didn't want to spend Christmas with them. So Jordan helped me pack a bag, we left a note, and we left. I didn't take my phone. I didn't want to deal with my mum trying to reach me.

Jordan told her family that I needed to get away, and they didn't ask any questions. They knew my parents were religious and controlling. I think they wished that they could help me out more than they already did. That, somehow, they could make up for the love I didn't receive from my own parents. It was sweet.

I didn't go back home until January second, and though I was expecting a beating when I got there, there was none. My mum pulled me into a tight hug and told me that she was glad I was home. That she had been worried sick about me. That Christmas hadn't been the same without me.

I swallowed the lies without a second thought.

Just like I had with Gwen.