Rose

Chapter Three: Doing Nothing

The next day, Rose's day off, Rose bit back tears. He was doing this job poorly, as a long line of water managed to trail steadily down his face. He tried not to cry before prayer, but his humanity always got the better of him. He closed the curtains slowly, watching the sunlight disappear behind the dark, thick linen. He stood there for a moment, using his eyes to trace the bit of stubborn sunlight still slipping past the barricade. He smiled a bit -but only a bit- and forced himself to go about his activity. He struck a match, getting down on his knees to light the candles at his feet. They flickered in the darkness, casting shadows on the walls. They're like dancers, thought Rose, leaning back to study them carefully. Dancing so steadily, so gracefully in the darkness, their fluid movements like no other. Rose's face fell. The dancers were disgraced, slain. Their names rolled off the tongue like vermin scratching the inside of an ancient, hollow wall. Once beautiful, the years of hatred and agony wasted away their beauty until they became nothing but shadows on a poor man's wall.

Rose wiped away the tear and adjusted his shoulders, letting his face slip into an emotionless mask. He hated this part of the day. But he had to participate, and he had to do it without complaint- Not because he was forced to, but because he was terrified not to. Rose carefully picked up a knife from in front of him. It was sharp and slick, sparkling in the dim light of the candles surrounding him. He had many knives, but this one was for this activity only. It was his least favorite. The handle was bulky and the blade would sometimes stick, making it somewhat useless in combat or in need of discretion. So, what better use could his least favorite tool be for than his least favorite activity? He pushed the blade outward, letting the light of the candles take home on its surface. 

Do it, a voice spoke, bouncing between his ears, a pendulum of horrific thoughts. What do you have to live for? Another day of this? Another fake ID and a new, temporary home? More hope lost to the family you so betrayed? He put the blade up to his throat. This will end it all. You'll join Her, just like you should want to. 

Rose shook his head. 

Shut up, he told the pendulum. I'll die when I want to. 

Rose moved the blade down again. He bit his lip, pressing the blade against his hand -just under his thumb- and dragging it across, ever so slowly. He watched the deep red, horrifically familiar, drip down his snow-white skin, as he moved it over a small metal dish. He let the crimson drops of life take new residence in the bowl and quickly used the match to ignite it, the acrid, metallic scent of boiling blood stinging his nostrils. Rose let out a whimper. Not because of the pain, but because after all efforts, he was still terrified to defy his family.

"Je," he whispered, then stopped. I don't have to do this, he told himself. I don't. I don't have to. Nothing will happen. He's not here anymore. Rose shook his head, tears drowning the lump in his throat. No, but she is. And so, he began, quickly whispering his prayer to get it over with, like ripping off a band-aid that had melded to his skin

"Je voudrais communiquer avec la déesse de la mortalité." He took a deep breath, folding his hands on his thighs. "My mistress," he began, each word like an individual blade piercing his skin, "I, the Unnamed Son of his Spiritual Highness Geoffrey Forfitch, offer you my blood in the hopes of you taking mercy on my mortality, allowing me to live, unpunished, another day, until I join you amongst your mighty ranks."

Rose took the smoking bowl and dragged his forefinger through it. The hot blood, thin and ashy, covered his hand. He moved it to his forehead. With a second's hesitation, he drew a cross between his eyebrows, grimacing as the blood trailed to his eye. Choking back his misery, he quickly wiped it off with the paper towel next to him. The blood always felt like ants to him. He slowly blinked opened his eyes, prepared to put away the candles and find something to take his mind off it all, only to look up to expose tall, muscular man feet away from him in the dark, confused and horrified. Rose suddenly got to his feet with surprising grace, the heel of his boot colliding with the wall. He took a switchblade from his pocket, using it to pin the southern Romeo against the wall.