Frightful Tales #1
Rose's Thorn
© 2014 Wesley Thomas
The following manuscript has been proofed and edited using British grammar and punctuation.
Copyright
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, email the Author, addressed below.
Email: [email protected]
Proofread/Edited by Paula Limbaugh.
Cover design by Sajjad, Courtesy of Fiverr.com/covermaestro..
Digital Edition
Disclaimer
This is a work of fiction. Although genuine factual historical events and locations are mentioned, everything else is fictitious. Including, but not limited to, characters, storyline/s, situations, occurrences. Any semblance to anyone of the living or dead is purely coincidental.
Chapter 1
Declan and Emily have been best friends ever since their mothers were in the same maternity ward at St Clement's Hospital eleven years ago. Declan has mousey brown hair with an adorable corn-flick, cheeks sprinkled with freckles, and a smile that brings warmth, and could lighten the darkest of rooms.
Emily has dark chocolate hair and eyes that were so shiny, it was as if they had been coated with a layer of glittery gloss. They were both equally short and thin, always dressed in colourful attire. Together they were the cutest kids around, and no one begrudged them this. Declan was an only child due to his mother’s inability to conceive any more children, and Emily had two brothers: Ryan and Harry. Although the two were practically siblings themselves, they came from completely different worlds. Emily came from wealth, equipped with all the luxuries that tend to accompany that lifestyle, one of which being a huge house within a rich suburban town. Expensive cars, pristine lawns, designer clothing, organic food, gourmet dinners; all of these were what Emily was accustomed too. Whereas Declan was from a working class family residing in a cramped terrace house located in a dangerous neighbourhood. As for food, he ate what he was given, gourmet meals were not in his mother's price range. But Declan was humble and modest, never resenting Emily for all she had. He was simply grateful for having a roof over his head, and food in his belly. He knew in third world countries that was considered a luxury.
But regardless of their drastic opposition in backgrounds they were thick as thieves; they always played together after school. Emily would come home from an upper class private school, and Declan from a working class, public one. They finished their homework together, and on a weekend would visit museums, water parks, theme parks, cinemas, concerts and so on. It wasn't an easy task to finance Declan's childhood, but his mother got by, only just. When either Emily or Declan would get ill the other would fret endlessly, willing them to have a speedy recovery so they could resume their play-schedule. They were joined at the hip, so to speak.
Declan felt he could be himself when he visited Emily's home, allowing him to play openly with porcelain dolls. You see, Declan enjoyed playing with exquisite and usually antique, porcelain dolls. He adored dressing them, and combing their hair, but if his father ever found out Declan would feel the full wrath of his loathing at such a feminine pastime. Emily had seen his brute of a father shout and yell at him for the tiniest, most insignificant things, and for the life of her she could not understand why. Declan would spill a glass of juice, or even more shockingly, water, that would not stain or damage. But this would not prevent an almighty hell reigning down. It was as if his father: David, was angry and resentful of his own life, and took it out on his only child. Over the years his father's behaviour began to escalate to frightening heights, to the point where Declan eventually had to endure daily beatings from a tender age: kicks, punches, slaps, being lifted off the ground, thrown against the wall; the list was endless, as was the poor child's torment. He began to question what he had done to deserve this. Had he been so naughty to warrant such a horrible attitude and life-threatening violence from his father?
Emily used to witness hysterical sobbing from her best friend; this killed her spirits. She wanted to help, but she had promised Declan that she would remain quiet about the whole situation. His father promised such unimaginable pain if he ever told anyone, so Emily kept her lips sealed and promise unbroken. But each time they would meet to study or play, it was becoming increasingly difficult for Emily to refrain from telling her parents how Declan was being treated at home. But she held it in tighter than excitement on Christmas Eve, which coincidently was only a few days away.
This Christmas Emily opened an array of expensive and superb presents, sublime in quality and quantity, but this was nothing new for her. Declan's Christmas would contrast greatly, it would consist of moans from his father commanding his son to stay in bed until he was ready to get up, but what child can wait until the afternoon to open their presents? Deirdra begged her husband every year to get out of bed earlier for their child, but it never happened. In fact, David would stay in bed later and later as the years progressed, as if done deliberately in spite. This year was not just unpleasant for Declan, but horrifying. His father, along with being abusive towards him was also work-shy and an alcoholic. His fits of rage where often a result of heavy drinking, but this year his fetish for the sauce had led him to forget to buy all the presents on the reasonably sized list the child had wrote. Most children wrote endlessly until hand cramps seized any more movement, but not Declan, he didn't want to put a strain on his parent's finances, so he only asked for what he really wanted, and most of the items he actually needed: school supplies, his extra curricular education, and a few games, etc. Whereas other kids would ask for completely frivolous things, or toys they would play with once and then tire of. But Declan not only kept his list modest, but made good use of everything that he received. His mother would work overtime at a local bakery to provide her son with the presents she felt he deserved. Each year she had been able to buy every inexpensive present on the list, feeling proud that she was able to do so, and completely oblivious to the fact that her son intentionally kept the list minimal, so she could feel that very sense of joy and accomplishment. But this year Deirdra was almost as mortified as Declan himself, when her eyes fell on the bare living room, lacking any new presents.
The only presents that were in the room were gifts family had brought by and put under the tree.
Declan wanted to cry, to burst into a flood of tears, but as his mother was standing behind him, he didn't want to upset her, so he suppressed his inner torment. His throat felt huge, as if a malignant lump was expanding in his gullet, each swallow of saliva took a large amount of effort. It wasn't only the lump, but the back of his mouth also felt incredibly sticky, as if someone had sprayed super glue at the top of his oesophagus. He waited until he reached the sanctuary of his bedroom until he released quiet shrieks of sorrow. His father was nowhere near the best dad in the world, but even this was somewhat of a shock to Declan's system. As it had become a tradition over the past few years, Deirdra drove Declan to visit Emily, although she hesitated in asking him if he would like this, given that she would be spoilt rotten with varieties of gifts and expensive presents. But as soon as Declan arrived, he only felt happiness at seeing Emily. No jealously or resentment, just genuinely happy to see her. With her glowing smile, and laugh that could lighten the spirits of a manic depressive. Emily very kindly and generously gave Declan many toys to play with while their mothers talked a
bout the mornings events. And after hours of playing, laughing, joking, grinning, and talking, Declan was about to leave Emily's home to go back to his own house and to the demon of a father. Just as they were about to walk through the front door, Emily asked if Declan could come upstairs for two minutes as she had a couple of toys up there he hadn't seen. The parents told the youngsters to hurry, unaware that Emily had a secret motive for taking Declan to her room.
As soon as they went inside her bedroom she reached to one of her porcelain dolls and gave it to Declan. But this was not just any old porcelain masterpiece, it was Emily's most expensive possession: crafted with talent and skill, beautifully rendered, the pale painted skin, light red cheeks, blonde flowing locks, and wearing exquisite attire.
“Here you go, she is yours,” Emily had said, with a huge smile dimpling her cheeks.
Declan was so grateful but he couldn't accept this gift. After a very brief conversation Emily had persuaded him to take it and think of it as Emily's present to him, given his father's neglect in that area. He had never felt closer to her, full of gratitude for having such an amazing friend who would perform such an act of pure kindness, he felt truly blessed. Albeit, his Christmas morning had not been the best of mornings. This could possibly outweigh the rank memory of the absence of presents, and replace it with the joyous one of his best friend giving him a doll. Not only was this sentimental, and the most valuable of all her belongings, but a doll which Emily knew Declan had always been profoundly fond of. He held back his tears for the second time that day. They both skipped downstairs and Declan left with his mother.
He had very cleverly concealed the doll in his jacket, even though his mother was never concerned with his liking of porcelain figurines. However he knew his father would grab the doll off him, beat him, and possibly break the doll in a fit of rage. He could not allow that to happen, as the doll represented so much more than his favourite of Emily's toys, but it portrayed just how strong their relationship was. So as soon as he arrived home, Declan scurried upstairs and hid the doll under a couple of loose floorboards in his room where he used to hide sweets and pocket money. But often his father would come in and take the little money he had, to go buy beer from the local corner shop, and even eat all the sweets his child had. So this put a stop to hiding things under those boards; he had found some other damaged boards to hide Rose under.
The Christmas season was surprisingly excellent after that. Declan visited Emily regularly, and even when he was at home he had Rose to play with. Everyday he combed her caramel hair, and dressed her in endless combinations of costumes, but the one main costume was a white dress with small roses printed on it, and a bonnet style hat to match. The usual drunken antics of his father were ignored due Declan's delight of playing with the doll. He would always lock his door, go to the floorboard and carefully take Rose out, enjoy several discreet hours with her, then go to sleep.
But soon the joyful season came to an end, and Declan was back at school, not that he minded any as he enjoyed it for the most part.
After an exciting first day back seeing his few friends and talking about their fun holidays, he came home to a shocking discovery. Upon finishing his homework and gobbling his dinner, he decided to go upstairs and find Rose for some playtime. But after unlocking the door with a gentle twist of his hand, and slowly prying up the wooden boards with his small fingertips, he seized all breathing when he saw she was no longer there.
His heart thundered like a hurricane pillaging a vulnerable village, he began rummaging through his bedroom: Riffling through drawers, ransacking his wardrobe, searching under his bed, in his desk, but she was nowhere to be seen. What could have possibly happened to her? He questioned. His mother wouldn't have hidden or taken it, she would have put it back where she found it had she stumbled across it, and he was confident that if his father had somehow found it, Declan would know by the torturous anguish his father would inflict. So where was she? Then, like a twinkle in a moonlight sky, the ivory colour of her pottery flesh gleamed in his peripheral vision, she was stood on the highest shelf in his room.
Chapter 2
This discovery made his skin hum with horror, singing with utter angst. Now he was scared, as there was no sense in her discovery. His father would have broke it, and his mother would never have dreamt of putting a doll out in plain sight, knowing the effect it would construct in her husband's short tempered psyche. So who put her up there?
He pondered the short list of possibilities for a brief moment, but then realised it was approaching night time and he really should be getting to sleep. So he stood on the end of his bed, brought the doll down, and placed her back in the safe enclosure beneath the bedroom floor. Although his eyes were closed and his body was still, his mind raced furiously, enthralled in the enigma of Rose. The utter lack of sense both discerned, and frightened him, he knew in his mind something was not right. He had learnt to trust his instinct as it had rarely driven him in the wrong direction in the past, but his instinct had usually paved out a highlighted explanation, whereas now, it formed a barely visible, transparent path that led to an unfamiliar place. But after an hour or so trying to find the piece of the puzzle that was missing, the piece that would conclude the mystery and ease his insufferable considerations, he slipped off on the voyage to slumber. Declan was sure that the morning would bring more answers in the form of a fresher mind after a dose of sugar from his favourite cereal.
***
A golden glow sneaked through Declan's window and highlighted the entirety of his room. Dust specks could be seen floating aimlessly like fish swimming in a bowl, slaves to their short term memory, repeating the same cycle, oblivious to the fact that they are doing so, each time their memory restarted with a new freshness endowed within them. A gleam radiated from the wooden floor as if it was a pathway to heaven, or the yellow brick road to Oz. Crumbs were dispersed on the ground due to buying confectionery from the school's snack shop and smuggling them home to his sanctuary. He noticed the sprinkles and began to taste the sugary goodness melt in his mouth at the memory of how the delicacies tasted. The sickly sour tang to some of the candy forced his face to crease in response to the bitter sweet lingering on his masochist buds. Piles of homework bombarded his desk; books, papers, files, notepads, print outs from the internet, they were a cheer-leading tower of work, relying on the delicate balance and equilibrium of gravity. One wrong move or gentle gust of wind and the mountain would begin to crumble like an avalanche racing downwards with mayhem in sight.
He awoke eagerly and spotted something unexpected. A doll. Rose. She was resting atop one of the wooden shelves towards the end of his bed. An eeriness filled his vessels, careening through his veins and scratching the marrow from his bones. More questions arose from the pit of his stomach. Once again the enigma that sparked was 'how had she gotten up there?' Now he was incredibly disturbed, an alarm of chaos ringing in his ears, slapping his drums, and clouding his mind of any logical dominating conceptions. He had locked his door, he was sure of that. He had placed Rose in her home, beneath the shining beams that his bedroom furniture rested on. So how had she got out? And how had she got on one of the shelves? The mystery was slightly rhetorical, in the sense that he would unlikely find the answer. The intellectual power controlled his impulses; it threw him out of bed and sent him to check the locks on his door. He wondered if the lock had somehow been disengaged and one of his parents knew about Rose's existence. However, if the interior bolt had not been tampered with, somehow, Rose had gotten up there some other way. He prayed that the latter was the prediction that would not prevail his body's actions. He grabbed the handle with dread in his heart, and pulled it down. A quarter of the way the motion was abruptly stopped, jerked to a standstill by the active lock. Simultaneously the aura of the lock being engaged, removed all hopes of the door opening, sounded aloud. The wooden, vertical board lacked any way of opening as the metal contraption was still in control of any unwanted encounters. But now Decl
an was worried less about people that might get in, and more concerned about the doll that was already inside.
This plagued his thoughts all morning. He had grabbed Rose, shoved her back in the residence and even moved his bed so that one of the posts rested on the door to her miniature home, the heavy wooden pillar weighing it down. This would remove any escape, but even more so, if he saw skid marks destroying the polished acacia wood, he would know someone was doing this to him, his mother or father were moving the doll and putting it on its foreign location on the shelf. As to why, he was clueless.
***
As he sat through school lessons he struggled tirelessly to focus, words flew over him like a jet, actions were done robotically with no determination or purpose, and even conversations were achieved out of pure obligation. He constantly flickered in and out of the words his friends muttered. He felt like a tuning knob on a radio, restlessly going from station to station. But radio channels weren't the aspect of him that was constantly being adjusted, it was his concentration. He tried multiple times to ask one of his friends about his conundrum, but common sense put a thick, deterrent wall between his wishes and actual actions.
His friends would only tease him, some would likely inform the whole populace of the school of his weird, but to them highly amusing predicament. So he chose to keep the zip on his mouth to the right side, keeping confidential happenings to himself, as he could not conceive a logical explanation to any of this. So until the glorious epiphany occurred, silence would be golden.
Frightful Tales #1: Rose's Thorn Page 1
