Sleeping Roses

by RaShelle Workman

  ‘The incident,’ happened almost three months ago. She heard him come in and waited patiently in bed, wearing the small, pink nightie she bought earlier in the day. David came into their bedroom, sitting next to her on the bed, a look of pure hatred in his eyes. Instinctively, she moved away from him, which was when she noticed the knife.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, terrified.

  “Where were you today at three o’clock?”

  “Let me check my planner,” she responded, her voice quivering.

  David threw the planner at her.

  He went through my purse, she thought, the trepidation inside her growing. She pretended to look through her planner, even though she knew where she’d been. Looking up, she said, “I got my hair done.”

  With the quickness of a cat, he grabbed her by the neck, pushing the knife into the flesh on her throat. “You’re lying,” he yelled. “I was there at three-fifteen and they told me you left ten minutes earlier. You’d better try again, and this time the truth or so help me, Sophie, you’ll regret it!”

  His face was next to hers. She smelled his hot breath. He’s been drinking, she thought, tears falling down her cheeks.

  This seemed to infuriate him even more, the knife cutting deeper into her neck.

  The warmth of her blood trickling down onto her chest, distracting her, she vaguely responded, “You’re right. I left the salon early because they were able to get me in ahead of schedule.”

  “Where did you go then?” he asked, shifting his body a little.

  I hope he’s uncomfortable, she seethed. Aloud said, “I decided to go to the Southtowne Mall and pick up something to wear for you tonight. I bought this,” she declared, trying to look down at herself. “I have the receipt. You can check the time.” She held her breath, hoping he’d let her go. “Please, David, I’ll go get it.”

  After a few moments, he slowly took the knife away, shoving her toward the door. “Hurry up. I’m waiting.”

  Swiftly getting the receipt, she flung it at him, unable to contain her feelings, “There. See?” she screamed.

  “Be careful,” he growled back, picking up the receipt and looking at it.

  What she hadn’t told him, and now never would, was her Great Aunt Moira Barton had died several weeks ago. Sophie, being her only living relative, had been the beneficiary of her assets. The lawyer said during their phone conversation it was substantial, requesting they meet. She asked him to meet her in the food court of the Southtowne Mall. Arriving early, she went quickly into a lingerie store, picking out the first thing she saw, before hurrying to meet with him.

  The lawyer efficiently went over the paperwork with her, explaining the legalities and how her Great Aunt had come to the decision to give her most of her assets. After she signed everything, he said, “There will still be some legal mumbo jumbo, but I’d say you should receive your first check within the next couple of months.”

  Her head reeling at the four and a half million dollars she’d inherited, she nodded, unable to believe it.

  “Do you have the account number where you’d like us to wire the money, or would you like it mailed to your home address?” The attorney questioned.

  “No,” she blurted loudly. Lowering her voice, she continued, “I don’t want it sent to my home address. Can I call you with an account number, once I’ve opened it?”

  “Of course, that would be fine. Or I can have your aunt’s financial advisor contact you. I’m sure he would open an account in your name, if you’d like.” He smiled at her, with a look that said he understood how much her life would change because of the money.

  “Actually, can I call him?”

  “Sure. Fine,” he said, fishing through his briefcase, pulling out a card and handing it to her. “You can reach him at the bottom number anytime,” he stated, standing.

  She stood, too, sticking out her hand. “Thank you for your help, sir. I appreciate you meeting me here and going over everything.”

  “Just doing my job.” He smiled, taking her hand, shaking it warmly. “You know how to reach me if you have anymore questions?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  Sophie snuggled down deeper under the covers, remembering the feeling of that moment. Was it elation? Joy? A sense of freedom? Maybe all of them together . . .

  After David had checked the receipt he looked up, his eyes ravishing her. He actually started to cry, looking from the bloody knife in his hand and back to her. Setting the knife on the table, he fell to his knees.

  Blubbering, he said, “Sophie, I thought I’d lost you. I didn’t want to hurt you. You know that, right?”

  She said nothing, was too scared to. Numb, she let her tears streak her face, and ignored the blood staining her nightie.

  Still crying, David stood, coming to her, putting his hands on either side of her shoulders, saying tenderly, “I won’t be made a fool of. Understand?”

  She nodded, wanting to run, but knowing now wasn’t the time. She would wait; make a plan. Watching him take off his shirt, she knew from experience what was coming. Flinching, she closed her eyes while he tried to wipe the blood off of her neck and chest. He stopped, though, when she cried out in pain. It only seemed to increase his desire for her, though, because he threw his shirt on the floor and rushed her.

  Kissing her neck, he moaned her name over and over.

  Before she responded, he picked her up and laid her on the bed. She heard him take off the rest of his clothes before straddling her. Kissing her neck again, he took off her nightie.

  She wanted to scream, but was quiet, trying to think about her life without him; to think about anything but what he did to her body.

  “Oh, Sophie, my Sophie,” he cooed in her ear. “I want us to make a baby. Let’s have a son together. It’d be perfect coming from us.”

  Sophie punched her pillow. Have a baby with him, she huffed? Not in this lifetime. Wiping her tears with the sheet, she looked at the clock. It said four twenty-three a.m. She groaned inwardly. I’m not wasting any more time on him.

  #

  Sophie slowly opened her eyes. The morning sun blaring in on her face, having poked through the thick drapes. Still a little shaken by her dream, she sat up, looking around. Unsettling, how real it seemed, she contemplated, allowing the dream to replay itself in her mind. Her mom and dad were standing over her, talking calmly, telling her they loved her. It had been comforting, until she realized she was strapped to a hospital bed and unable to move. In the corner of the room, seemingly hovering, she’d seen a grayish-black mist with glowing, yellow eyes. It seemed to be calling to her, coming closer. She screamed and cried, begging her parents to help, but as hard as they tried, the restraints wouldn’t budge.

  “It was a dream,” she whispered fervently, lying back down. “I’ve got to think of something else.” Struggling internally to push aside her nightmare, something worse pummeled its way in. Yesterday’s ordeal with David.

  Overwhelmed with a heavy sadness, she pulled the plain white sheet and flower covered bedspread over her head, not ready to begin her day. Her heart did belly flops, the aching pain reminding her, although she’d done the right thing by leaving David, her heart had second thoughts.

  As stupid as it is, I still love him. I’m a glutton for punishment, I guess, or I need serious therapy. “What am I going to do?” she asked herself out loud.

  As if on cue, her hotel phone rang. She jumped. The deafening ring cutting through the stillness. At first she didn’t want to answer it, afraid it might be David, but she remembered he didn’t know where she was.

  Gingerly, she answered the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Sophie, there you are. I’ve been trying your cell phone for the last ten minutes.”

  “Rina?”

  “Yes dear, it’s me. Who else would it be?”

  “Right, well, I turned my cell phone off last night after I talked to David.”

  “What did he say?” she questioned, her
voice sounding worried. “You didn’t tell him where you are, did you?”

  “Actually, I did,” Sophie replied mordantly. “He’s sitting here beside me. Would you like to talk to him?” She couldn’t help herself. Sometimes Rina’s motherly concern frustrated her, and she wanted to be rebellious.

  “What?”

  Sophie laughed a little, unable to maintain her serious tone any longer.

  “Ha ha. Point taken.”

  Glancing at the clock, Sophie noticed it was only seven-thirty in the morning. She’s definitely being motherly. “You’ve reached me now, what’s up?”

  “Oh, right. I called to make sure you weren’t having second thoughts about your interview today. You remember the interview is at nine-thirty a.m.?”

  “Yes, I remember, and I don’t know if you’d call it second thoughts, but it does seem sudden. You know how David feels about me working, and he threatened me again last night. I think he’s gone crazy. It might not be a good idea to start all of this now.”

  “He threatened you? What did he say, the son of a bi-?”

  Not ready for Rina’s foul mouth this early in the morning, she interrupted, “He said one way or the other, I’m his.”

  “Is that all? It’s a threat, nothing more. He’s controlling, and you aren’t doing what he wants. He’s mad.”

  “I hope you’re right, but it feels wrong.” And it did feel wrong. She sensed she’d opened a recurring sore in David. More than his words were the feelings she had when she talked to him last night. Something wasn't right, she knew.

  “Come on, Sophie. You’re a great painter and I know you’ll be a wonderful teacher. I’m sure it’s hard. This is a big step for you but now is the time for you to stand up for yourself. Be strong.”

  Strong. There was that word again, she thought, agitated. “Easy for you to say.” She heard Rina sigh. “All right, I’ll be there.”

  “Would you feel better if we called the police? Tell them about the threat.”

  “No. No police. I know it may seem weird to you, but part of me still loves him. He’s all the family I have left now.”

  “Not true. You’ve got me. I’m here for you,” Rina said defiantly.

  “Thanks, I know.” She knew Rina was right. To have anything to do with David now would be foolish. Taking a deep breath, she held it, waiting for Rina to let her go.

  “Good. Now, how are you doing?”

  Letting out the air, Sophie chortled, “You didn’t just ask me that question.”

  “Yeah, pretend I didn’t, dear.” Rina laughed back.

  “I’ll see you later.”

  “Sounds good. Bye.”

  Sophie placed the receiver back in the cradle, getting up. She needed a fresh change of clothes and she needed her portfolio, which meant going back to the house. First, though, she decided to take another shower, hoping the warmth of the water would calm her nerves.

  As she waited for the water to warm, she studied herself in the mirror. Without realizing it, she scrutinized her body, something she’d grown accustomed to doing since being with David. In their relationship, she discovered the smallest thing would set him off, which is why she’d begun a morning ritual of checking her face and body to make sure he would have nothing to get upset at. Once he gave her a fifteen-minute lecture on cleanliness when she woke up one morning with a pimple on her face.

  “Yuck,” she groaned aloud, “I look like a skeleton.”

  At five-foot-six and a hundred and five pounds, she did look like a skeleton. Her normal, healthy body weight was one hundred thirty pounds. She liked the curviness of her figure there. Now, after two years of cutting way back, her body was sickly, scrawny.

  Except for the ample bosom she’d somehow kept, she thought she had a boy’s body. With the loss of twenty-five pounds, all of her curves had disappeared. Her face, although angular, was beautiful. She had fair skin, with big, bright green eyes. Her naturally blond hair was long and layered. It had an untamed waviness to it, which was either a curse or a blessing, depending on the day and the amount of humidity in the air.

  She knew she should be happier with her appearance, but she’d never been able to feel comfortable with herself.

  Before she married David, Rina was always complementing her . . .

  The first time they met, Rina had walked over to Sophie at a party, looked her up and down, and said matter-a-fact, “Oh, I bet you’ve got lots of friends.”

  Stunned, Sophie asked, “What do you mean?”

  “Well, look at you, you’re gorgeous.”

  Embarrassed, Sophie blurted, “Thanks.”

  It had been the beginning of an amazing friendship. Secretly, she thought Rina was more beautiful than she was. She was taller by about three inches, and lean. Having run track in college, it showed on her body. She had long dark brown hair, which she normally kept in a ponytail. It was straight and thick.

  Her face, though, was most beautiful. It was striking; elegant. She had olive skin, caramel-colored eyes, high cheekbones and a beautiful mouth.

  Sophie thought she should have been a model. Guys fell over themselves doing all sorts of wild things to try to get Rina's attention.

  Rina rarely dated, though, seemed altogether uninterested in men. And although she wondered, Rina hadn’t told her she was gay until two years into their friendship. Rina had come to her apartment crying one night, something she’d never done before or since (the crying), saying someone had broken her heart, but didn’t go into more detail. She said in her simple, tactless way, “I’ve tried men and I’ve tried women. I prefer women.”

  At first, Sophie was shocked because Rina had been so blunt, but responded,

  “It’s about time you finally told me. I’ve suspected for a while, you know.”

  Rina threw a pillow at her, laughing. As she wiped her tears, she retorted, with an all too familiar gleam in her eyes, “No way. How could you know? I decided for sure tonight.”

  Sophie hurried and showered, then dressed and drove over to the house she shared with her husband. 422 East 5th Avenue. Salt Lake City, Utah. Although she’d lived in Utah her whole life, this house wasn’t her home. She was never comfortable in it. All of the comforts existed, but no warmth.

  Perhaps, under different circumstances, she would have loved this house. It was built in 1947, with lots of country charm and a Victorian flare. Made of solid brick, except for the porch, which was wood. It stood two stories, with a full basement. The porch was painted white, and large columns stood on either side of the steps, leading to the front door. The porch also wrapped around the house to the left, where there was another entrance into the kitchen.

  One of her first purchases had been brown wicker furniture, complete with two chairs, a coffee table and a love seat, which doubled as a rocker. She hung pansies, peonies, and climbing ivy all along the porch awning, hoping to feel some happiness in the midst of the black hole of her marriage.

  It had helped, a little. She spent many days sitting on the porch, listening to the singing birds, watching while they built nests in the large Maple tree in the front yard.

  Go in and get it over with, she thought, knowing she was stalling. She turned off her car and went in. It was eight-thirty a.m. She knew today he should already be gone, but when she entered the front door, she called out his name anyway, just to be safe.

  “David?”

  When there was no answer, she breathed a sigh of relief, starting toward the stairs. Her eyes drifted to the foyer table, where she noticed a fresh vase of roses sitting on it, but what made her freeze in her tracks was the envelope propped against the vase with her name on it.

  “David?” she called out again nervously. After waiting a few seconds, she quickly walked over and picked up the envelope. Tearing it open, she read through it, absently rubbing the scar on her neck.

  My Dearest Sophia,

  It’s regrettable what happened yesterday. It was insensitive of me to bring her into the house. Forgive me. Yo
u know I won’t let you live without me. You can’t. No one will ever love you as much as I do.

  Meet me at the restaurant tonight. Nine o’clock sharp! Don’t worry about what to wear. I’ve had something picked up for you. It’s hanging on the door to our closet.

  Let’s put this behind us!

  David

  Sophie read the note again, before stuffing it into her purse. Brushing a tear from her cheek, she ran upstairs. Going first to the hall closet, she grabbed a suitcase, then walked into their bedroom.

  Admittedly, it was a beautiful room, although only on the surface. To her, it seemed cold and lifeless; a dungeon. A place where captor and captive shared space. No love.

  Absolutely no fond memories.

  Large and spacious, with a high, vaulted ceiling. A large, twinkling chandelier hung from the middle, emitting a romantic glow. The walls were painted soft green, with pictures the decorator had purchased, hanging symmetrically throughout.

  The oversized bed was grand and ornate. Carved cherry wood, with a deep cherry finish. The headboard was twice the size of the footboard, delicately carved.

  The thick, soft bedding was luscious, when it was made. She noticed, disgustedly, he hadn’t bothered to change the white and green striped sheets she’d put on the bed. The same sheets he and that woman had been screwing in, when she caught them. The bedding was mainly white, with glimpses of color here and there, on a decorative pillow or sham, or on the sheets.

  At the end of the bed was a custom bench. He had it made for her. She knew it was there because he didn’t want her mothers’ chest to replace it.

  There were two nightstands, one on either side of the bed. His was cluttered. Stacked with old newspaper clippings he saved because they had talked about him or his restaurant.

  There were several different restaurant awards he’d received, books, and a pair of reading glasses, he’d been told he needed, but never used. A small, ceramic, table-lamp sat discreetly on one edge. Horizontally from the lamp, on the other edge, stood an ugly, white alarm clock with big, red numbers.