The Knight Of The Rose

by A. M. Hudson

  display of emotion.

  “My exact words to you that day, and my exact meaning were, I feel responsible for what

  happened to your mum and Harry. And you said it was your fault, that if you hadn’t run away it

  wouldn’t’ve happened. That’s when I said that running away was a childish thing to do. And that was

  all I said, Ara. The fact is, I was responsible for you. I let you down. I did not say you caused this. I

  never said, felt or meant that. You know that.”

  “No. I don’t. I know the way you looked at me . I know the way you looked away when you

  first saw me after the accident, and how disgusted you were in me that night for daring to feel what I

  file://C:eBooksthe knight of the rosetmp_10fb7585fb340176147f7cd7cde60c05_vy... 27/05/2012

  felt for you—”

  “That’s what you think?” He briskly stepped forward and gr abbed my arms. “That I was

  disgusted. In you? Ara, I was disgusted in myself for—”

  “For telling me how you truly felt?” I shrugged out of his hands. “You shouldn’t be. Because

  that should be allowed. If you don’t love someone you have a right to tell them.”

  “But I do love you. You know that.” He swooped into me again.

  “Don’t touch me!” I ducked out from under his arms and ran to the edge of the stage. “I don’t

  want you to touch me.”

  “Ara. Please—”

  I took a glance over m y shoulder to se e his bulky silhouette in the middle of the stage,

  reaching out to me, then jumped off the edge, bent my knees as I landed on the ground, and walked

  away with my arms folded.

  “Where are you going?” he asked.

  “Home.”

  At a run, Mike’s footfalls fell down on the hol low-sounding floor, then stopped as a soft tap

  of shoes on carpet came up behind me. “Baby, talk to me. Please don’t be like this. I just want you to

  be happy.”

  “Happy!” I spun around. “If you wanted me to be happy, then you’d ne ver have told me you

  love me, Mike. Now I’m just confused and empty.”

  Mike doubled back, dropping his hand to his si de as the b lade of my words hit his heart.

  “You don’t mean that,” he whispered.

  “What would you know? You d on’t know anything about me, Mike. Maybe you used to—in

  fact, no—scratch that. If you did, you’d never have rejected me like that.”

  “Ara, I didn’t r eject you. I just asked you to wait a second whi le I processed what was

  happening between us. You shook me up, girl. I wasn’t expecting you to throw your arms around my

  neck and kiss me.”

  “Yeah, well—” I looked up at him, keeping my arms folded, “—it was a mistake. You and I.

  All of it. Nothing but a big, fat mi stake. Now, it’s time I fix things—put them all back in the ri ght

  place.”

  “What are you saying?” He grabbed my wrist; I yanked it back.

  “I’m saying, I. Love. David, Mike—” I poked my ches t on each word, “—not you.” The lie

  came out through my lips like a hot breat h; I couldn’t even gasp the words back in—they just fell

  out. When Mike dropped his head, even the shadowed darkness did nothing to hide his pain.

  It’s too late now, t here’s no taking it back. He’s hur t, and I’m alone and mean and ugly

  inside, like I’ve always been.

  “So that’s it then?” His voice quaked. “You’re just going to throw it all away because of

  some boy you just met?”

  “He’s not just some boy, Mike. He’s my one true love.”

  Mike nodded, clenching his fists beside him. “You’re not a child anymore, Ara. It’s time you

  grew up. All this true love and fairy-tale bull shit!” His angered voice touched my nerves, forcing me

  to quiver slightly. “It’s not real. He is not your tr ue love. He’s a random stepping stone, a fall back

  guy—a—a bloody infatuation.” Mike took a deep breath and let it out with a loud groan, then held

  his thumb to his brow. “Look—I hurt you. I’m sorry for that, okay? But you don’t love him, not like

  you love me.”

  “No—you’re right. I don’t. I love him more.”

  “Ara,” Mike said softly, “I’m not giving up yet. I know you bett er than you know yourself .

  You’re going to regret everything you just said to me in about five minutes.”

  “You’re wrong, Mike,” the beast inside me sp oke. “I stopped feeling for you the day my

  family died. I don’t care if the trut h hurts you, because you need to know. Just like I needed to—that

  night.”

  “Ara—” he edged closer, “Don’t. Please don’t.”

  With a stiff lip, I drew a tight breath and said, “I’m sorry, but...I don’t love you. I want you to

  go home and never come back.” Then, hurriedly, before guilt could set in, I turned away and headed

  for the door. The light barely even touched my face bef ore I realised what that would have done to

  him. I couldn’t see him, but I could feel the cold in the room from the detachment of his soul.

  Mike was wrong when he said it would take five minutes for me to regret what I said—it was

  instant. Holding my head high, with pride moving my feet, I kept walking. It’s too late now. I said it,

  and it’s not like I can just t ake back something I said when it’s al ready been said. He won’t believe

  me if I tell him I never meant any of it.

  Out of the darkness, a hand grabbed me, stealing a gasp f rom my lips as Mike spun me

  around and imprisoned me i n a fleshy cage, r ight in front of his face. “Say it again!” he order ed

  gruffly. “Say it like you mean it, and I’ll go. But you don’t, Ara.” He studied me carefully, his eyes

  darting over every inch of my face. “You don’t mean it. Say it!” He shook me.

  My lip quivered and a cold tear rolled over my cheek. Mike had never been rough with me

  before. It was suddenly very clear that he wasn’t as sure I loved him as he said he was. He believed

  me when I said I don’t care for him—just as I’d wanted him to.

  “That’s it, is it? Nothing? You have nothing to say to me?” His voice cracked above the

  controlled hysterics. “After all these years, after…after all the…” He let go of my arms, turning his

  head away as his hand covered his mouth.

  Even though my face crumpled with the saturation of regret, I r efused to let myself hide in

  my hands. He needed to see I was hur ting, too. He needed to know how I felt. If I couldn’t tell him

  now, I’d lose him forever.

  Mike and I stood in silence, only a step away from each other. I couldn’t speak. My chest felt

  so tight the words wouldn’t come. If only he was like David, I could say in my mind, I’m so sorry,

  Mike. I love you. I love you! And I want you to know that. I just…I’ll always love David, though.

  Always. Above the silence, a mighty gr owl broke through. Mike looked up at me, then his eyes

  followed to my belly as the ogre made a last demand for nourishment.

  “When did you last eat?” He l ooked back at my face, and in the pale light from outside, I

  noticed the hint of a smile around the corners of his eyes.

  “Last night.“

  A loud huff of air burst out through a sudden wide grin. Mike’s arms flew up and wrapped

  around me, pulling me into hi s chest with a jolt. “I shoulda known,” he wept against the top of my

  head. “I shoulda known you could ne ver say things li ke that.” As my breath str uggled through his />
  strangle hold and into my lungs, I tried to push away from him, to protest against his sudden change

  in direction. But he squeezed me tighter and shook his head. “No way, baby girl. I am not letting you

  go.” So, with a sigh, my shoulders dr opped and I gave in, let him hold me—let his warm, strong

  embrace make me feel safe and loved again. The way he always made me feel. A clipping of sandy

  hair brushed across my brow from Mike’s head; I closed my eyes, revelling in the feeling of home all

  around me, like a blanket.

  “Just say it though, pleas e?” He held my shoulders, looking down into my face. “Just so my

  heart will believe my ears. Please just tell me you didn’t mean any of it?”

  After inhaling deeply, then letting it out, I said very softly, “You know I didn’t, Mike.”

  His chest shuddered as relief left his lips in a breath. “I’m so sorry I yelled at you, baby.” He

  gathered me into his chest; I folded into him willingly, letting him make an apology for something he

  need not apologise for. “I was just so worried about you. If I’d lost you—if you were gone, I…I just

  don’t know what I would’ve done.”

  Even though I knew he was referring to the fact that I ran away this morning, a small part of

  me wondered if what he really meant was, if I didn’t love him, or if I truly wanted him to go back

  home. And that made me feel happy, in a silly kind of way, that he could love me so much, to be so

  devastated if I would not love him in return.

  When we walked through the fro nt door back home, Dad didn’t even bot her grilling me. I

  half expected to become the steak to his side of fri es with way too much salt. But he jus t hugged

  me—held me tight, like I mattered more to him than anything in the world—then handed me back to

  Mike before walking away, without saying a word.

  I looked to Mike for reassurance.

  “Food?” he said with a gentle smile.

  I nodded. “Yeah. Food sounds great.”

  “He was a valuable member of the student body , and his is a loss we will never repl ace.

  Nathan Rossi will be sorely missed.” The last chimes of the school principal’s speech resonated in

  my thoughts while I played. Though the darkness narrowed me in to my own private existence, I

  could feel the pale glow of the spotlight over me, and I knew that all eyes below the stage would fall

  on me as soon I stopped. So I played on. Past the e nd of the song, taking the last note and merging it

  with the first of another. Ryan and Alana exchanged glances, but played along. I closed my eyes,

  blocking them out.

  Of all the worlds my mind creates, this, where I live each day, is the most painful one; the

  world that hovers on the wrong side of truth—the one I cannot escape from, even if I close my eyes

  or wake myself up. In this world, everyone I love is gone, and the boy the crowd mourns, Nathan, is

  gone too. No matter how much we play for him, he will never hear our songs. But, I will still play,

  though—sending this song out to him, to Harry, to Mum and….to David.

  Mike sat t all and proud in the front row beside Dad and Vicki, but each time my gaze

  travelled past him to any boy with dark brown hair, my pulse would skip into my stomach—hoping it

  was David.

  But it wasn’t.

  In my heart, I truly believed he’d come tonight, but mine was the last performance, and so

  far, he hadn’t showed.

  The spotlight above me illuminated the keys blue against the black piano, and my fingers—

  my almost perfect mythological vampire fingers—played for those who lived only in my memories. I

  closed my eyes to hold the emotional energy of the crowd inside me, then pushed it out through my

  notes, through my fingers.

  Alana stroked the bow across her violin in long slow not es, and we created a s ound as sad

  and lonely as walking through a graveyard when all your friends and family are gone. Or for me ,

  when David is gone.

  Our unrehearsed instrumental rang on for a wh ile, and behi nd my closed eyes I imagined

  David for a second, walking onto the stage, kissing me and whispering, “I’ll stay—I’ll pretend to be

  human, just because I love you.”

  It felt good to imagine him that way.

  With the strength that one second of happiness brought, I ended the song and bowed my head

  to the applauding crowd.

  Emily, looking glorious under the travell ing spotlight, waltzed across the stage and took the

  mike. I tuned out while she rattled off her speech, coming back to the attention of the real world

  when she said, “Somewhere Over the Rainbow, with our very own Ara Thompson, Alana Petty and

  David Knight.”

  She stepped away f rom the microphone; I drew a breath and placed my lips over the one in

  front of me, waiting for the applause to fade.

  When the gui tar came in on the first not e, exactly where it should be, I looked over to

  David’s place on the stage.

  Ryan smiled back—holding David’s guitar—an d this t ime, my heart remained steady,

  unsurprised by the confirmation of my horrible suspicion.

  David is definitely not coming tonight.

  I sang the words of the song from memor y, not from my heart. All the joy, all the passion I

  once felt when singing was non-existent—dead, weighted like heavy rain.

  David. My David. What did I do to you to make you leave like this?

  Mike caught my eye and smiled as I performed to perfection. His face was the only one that

  stood out in the crowd, and I knew, from the look in his eye, that he was unawa re of the pain I felt.

  My music teachers taught me wel l how to perform when everything around me was falling away. If

  Mike could see the tears nudging my eyes, he’d launch himself onto the stage, throw the piano across

  the room, then take me in his arms and never let me go.

  A smile replaced a little of my gloom because, if all else was lost in the world, I knew I’d still

  have him.

  We finished the song to a standing ovation. Mike wiped a mock tear from his cheek; I smiled

  at him, then took a bow and sat back down at the piano for my solo.

  After a deep breath, I closed my eyes, and in the moment it took to open them again, the

  room went dark and ulti mately quiet. A wispy cool encircled me, the absence of life filtering

  emptiness into my surroundings. I sat taller and looked around the vacant auditorium.

  I was alone; everyone was gone.

  How long have I been sitting here?

  A whisper of a memory salted my thoughts, making me look down at my bone-white, numb

  fingers. I remembered playing. I remembered the faces of the audience—how afterward, they greeted

  me and shook my hand. I had smiled and nodded, while inside, I was dying.

  I could see it all as it happened, but couldn’t remember living it. I wondered if Dad or Mi ke

  were looking for me—worried about me.

  My posture sunk a little as I made myself smaller and took a few shallow breaths. Truth was,

  I really didn’t care if they were worried. I just wanted to exist in the only place I wasn’t consumed by

  the loss or grief of my l ife—play, pour my heart into a song unt il it no longer felt like it was

  bleeding.

  Ignoring the tension of the impending grilling, I placed my fing ers to the keys again. Each

  note poured through them like rainbow-coloured grief—strings of light that, with every pul l
on my

  heart, tore away another part of my soul ; brought to the surface another emotion, another painful

  memory I thought I’d locked away for good.

  Through all of this that I’d suffered, I knew that, inside, I was destroyed. I would never be the

  same again. I tried once, to move on, to be normal, but with the loss of David, of my one true love, I

  knew that moving on was never in the car ds for me. Whatever my existence here was fated to be,

  happiness was not it. David was not it.

  Like a strong link to a powerful memory, a faint hint of a famili ar sweet scent touched my

  lungs. I drew a deep breath of orange-chocolate, and my body rejoiced the sensation of oxygen, as if

  I’d not taken a breath since I last held David.

  My head whipped up; I looked back to the chairs that only hours ago had been fil led with

  friends and family, and all of a su dden, in the middle of the seat s—softly lit by the light from t he

  corridor outside, I saw a face.

  David.

  He stood up slowly, like a ghost weighed down by the anguish in the world.

  How long has he been there? What has he heard in my thoughts while he was watching me?

  “I know this is hard.” He appeared behind me, his smooth, ethereal voice shattering my heart.

  “But you knew this. Breaking up was never going to be easy.”

  “So that’s what this is?” I asked in a quiet voice, looking down. “We’re broken up, now?”

  “I wish it wasn’t so.”

  “It doesn’t have to be.”

  “It does.”

  “But...maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to—” I spun around on the seat and stopped dead when I

  looked at him; it ached inside to see his face after I was sure I’d never lay eyes on him again.

  “What wouldn’t be so bad?”

  “To…to be like you.”

  He shook his head. “You can’ t be l ike me. I’ve spent so much time thinking about i t—

  desperate to find some way this could work. But, Ara? There’s no saying you even carry the gene.

  What if we tried and you—” he shook his head again, “—you have to take a chance at life. You have

  to live it to its fullest before I could even dream of changing you.”

  “But—”

  “No.” He placed his thumb to my l ips and sh ook his head. “If you di e, Ara, without ever

  knowing life, motherhood, I could not live with myself. It is better to have lived your life in