The Knight Of The Rose

by A. M. Hudson

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Death; those of us who out run it can never escape it. It held me in its clutches long enough

  to steal my life, and though I breat he and talk and am capable of human emotion on the outside,

  inside, I’m a cold, putrid corpse of a human being.

  He left me—backed away, turned around and held his head high as he fl ed my life for

  eternity. No second chance, no discussion—just gone.

  My body will heal, even though my limbs tur ned to jelly while I was in the coma and the

  doctors sent me home on a strict schedule of rigoro us and painful physiotherapy, they tell me I will

  be okay—one day. But they’re ta lking about my ability to wal k to the bathroom by myself or

  breathe properly when I sit up. None of them know what torments I suff er inside, even the

  psychiatrist in Vicki can’t tell.

  But despite the darkness I live in once more, and the fact that I can’t go anywhere or do

  anything except my weekly visits to the hospital, the care Vi cki, in particular, has given me, has

  been nothing short of saintly. There was one point there where I even willingly called her Mum.

  “Ara?” Vicki broke my reverie, knocking on my door, even though it was open.

  I looked up from pretending to read my book. “Hm?”

  “Um—” She shuffled her feet. “Emily’s on the phone.”

  “Vicki!” I slammed the book down beside me. “I told you. No phone cal ls. I don’t want to

  talk to anyone.”

  “But, Ara, honey, it’s been weeks—she just wants to see you’re all right.”

  “Do I look all right? God, I can hardly even walk myself to the bathroom, I—”

  “Yes, you can, you did it this morning, remember?” She grinned.

  “Yes, but that doesn’t mean I want visitors.” Especially not Emily—she was right beside

  Mike when he...found me.

  “Okay. I’ll uh—I’ll tell her to call back another day.” Vicki nodded and closed the door.

  I stared at the empty space for a moment, my lip quivering, my arms weighted with grief. I

  just can’t do it. I just can’t l et Em see me. I miss her so much, I miss school, I miss normal life, but

  I’m so goddamn embarrassed and ashamed. I don’t even want to look at my own fat her, let alone

  my friends.

  No. I decided with a shake of my head. No, I definitely can’t see Emily. I just can’t.

  “Hey, ba—” I jumped and wiped hot tears fr om my cheeks, hurriedly gr abbing my book as

  Mike swung my door open. “Ara? Baby, are you crying?”

  “Nope.” I shook my head and held the book to my chest as he sat beside me. “I’m good.”

  “So these are tears of hilarity then?” He looked at the title of my book.

  “Yup. Funny scene in the book.” I forced a smile.

  Mike’s eyes narrowed, his head seeming to shake, though he held it sti ll. I knew he wasn’t

  born yesterday, but I also knew that with the prudence they all exercised with me lately, he

  wouldn’t push for the truth. The question was etching on his lips, though; he wanted to know why I

  cried if I didn’t remember anyt hing about the attack, and a part of him, I was s ure, wondered if

  David had something to do with it.

  He asked me once, if there was some reason David had become s o upset when he sa w the

  wound on my neck—more upset than anyone else. But it wasn’t the wound which upset David, it

  was because that’s how he knew that Jason had done this—that was when he realised I couldn’t be

  changed and that he’d lost me forever.

  Mike knew there was more to the story, but he hadn’t pieced it together...yet.

  “Ara?” Mike said, snapping his fingers in front of my face. “Quit fazing out.”

  “Oh, sorry, Mike. What did you say?”

  He sighed and looked down at my ring, then s hook his head. “Nothing—it was nothing. I

  uh—” he took a breath, “—I’ll be in my room if you need me.”

  “Okay, Mike.” I scratched just beside my nos e as he exited the room. Normally, I’d have

  asked him to tell me what he’d just said, but I didn’t want to know.

  I looked back at my book and flicked the edge of the frayed binding, trying not to let the last

  few minutes I had with David play in my mind—how he told me Jason would never come back to

  kill me again, that he left me alive with the promise he’d never break my heart . Why would my

  heart matter to him, and why would he be at risk of breaking...

  I snapped from the world of thought, removed my hand from my chest and shut my book

  with a dull thump. I wish I could clear my head. I wish I could run, not run away, but just run. Feel

  the fresh air and the sun on my face. But anything that was once normal no longer belonged to me.

  The summer went away while I wa s asleep, and after so many blood transfusions and

  months in a bed, even being on my own had beco me a luxury. I’m prett y sure they all thi nk I’m

  suicidal again. And who knows, maybe I am. It’s not like any reason for living exists in my world

  anymore. I’m not even sure Mike still wants to marry me. No one mentions it. No one mentions

  moving back to Perth. No one mentions anything.

  As another night rolled to a close, Sam sat at the base of my bed and sketched pictures in his

  journal. He was good company. It was enough for him to just sit and be silent. “What do you

  think?” He held up his book.

  “Wow, Sam, that’s amazing.” Not just because the grey sketch of the girl looked exactly like

  me, but because she was smiling—something I’d not done for weeks.

  He rested the book in his lap and kept his eyes on it. “Ara?”

  “Yeah, Sam?”

  “Do you remember much—about the attack?” He pretended to re-trace t he lines on his

  picture. “Does it keep you up at night?”

  He meant well—but he shouldn’t have asked that. “Yes. It does,” I whispered. “But I try not

  to think of it.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “Me too.” I covered my head with my blankets.

  No one told Sam the finer details of the attack, but gossip has a way of spr eading, and when

  Sam came home the other day in tears for what people were saying, Mum and Dad were forced to

  tell him the truth.

  I closed my eyes and remembered the whispered conversation I overhead between Sam and

  Mike earlier today, when Sam told how he got i n a fight, standing up for me when a boy remarked

  that I’d brought the attack on myself—that I enjoyed it. The boy had told Sam that Dad lied, that my

  attacker really did...violate me. Sam punched him.

  No one knew what really happened; I’d take th e truth to my grave—however far away that

  may be. And I didn’t plan to stay in the US either. My story made the news and all the major

  papers; there was no escaping th e stares. Conclusi ons based on odd facts are the wo rst kinds of

  infectious humiliation. I’d already planned to jump on a plane and go back home as soon as I was

  well—whether that was as Mike’s fiancé or not, I didn’t care. I just needed to get away from here—

  away from it all.

  David once said that it was ki nder for a vampire to kill a human than to leave them alive—

  suffering in agony until they fi nally pass. He was ri ght. Death w ould have been kinder. Perhaps

  that’s why Jason left me alive—so I’d walk the Earth for the rest of my days, not only ashamed and

  broken, sufferin
g the consequences of his cruelty in every nightmare, but also that I’d suffer it

  alone—without David. Jason must have known David would leave me; I’m not worthy of his love if

  I’m not changeable.

  But I still, and always will, love him.

  A wild winter gale rattled my windowpane, and the darkness of the ni ght touched every

  corner of my room. I couldn’t remember Sam leaving, and though I heard Dad and Vicki go to bed,

  I couldn’t remember if they came in to say goodnight—like they always did.

  The music vibrating through my earphones helped to filter out some of the clatter from the

  wind, but I should’ve been more careful about the playlist I chose. Tonigh t, in the darkness , the

  song evoked a powerful memory of David.

  Providence; David’s dedication to me.

  I made myself small against the wall and hugged my pill ow to my chest. I miss him more

  than I ca n verbalise—more than the soul is c apable of coping with. I can’t seem to find any

  resolution, and I can’t st op myself from grieving for him. The worst part is, I really thought my

  death would reunite us—t hat the prospect of me no longer existing w ould make me, somehow,

  more important to him than his Set and his rules.

  Guess I was wrong. Assumptions. Again.

  The skin along my cheeks hurt from the constant wiping of tears, but as the cold turned them

  icy against my lips, I forced myself to wipe them away. Then, as I sniffled, a memory of David’s

  scent replayed in the dar kness. The sweet, orange -chocolate stirred a quiet suf fering from deep

  inside my soul, making me lose the fight to subdue my sobs. I could hardly breathe, hardly stop my

  shoulders ferociously shaking as I bawled, muffling my cries against my hands.

  “You’re not really here, are you?”

  The memory of him stood in front of me, his liquid-green eyes intense with sorrow, as if our

  separation hurt him just as much as me. “If I were, my love, I shouldn’t be.”

  Then, as swiftly as the apparition appeared be fore me, he was gone again. With my mouth

  slightly open, the tone of his smooth voice ringing in my ears as if he’d really spoken, I remained

  breathless, watching the breeze blow in through my window. A second passed, and my heart began

  to beat again.

  I can’t take it anymore. I sw itched off my iPod and ditche d it across the room. Tomorrow

  I’m going to erase every song I ever placed on that stupid thing for David. I have to get all memory

  of him out of my life.

  I kicked off my covers and th rew them, and my pillows, on top of the iPod—hiding it away

  so I wouldn’t have t o think about it—then rolled over and shivered in the nakedness of my bed,

  wishing I’d at least kept my blanket . But regret only lasted another few so bs as the exhaus tion of

  healing swept me under the grasp of sleep, like dust under a rug.

  Morning has a funny way of turning up when it’s not wanted. The unr uly wind from last

  night receded with the moon, a nd the s un cast a scarlet ri bbon across the horizo n. Through the

  reflection of my antique mirror on the other side of my room, I watched a murder of crows flock in

  the open sky.

  It was early, but there was still so much be auty in the morning, despite the world’s

  ignorance to its existence. I snuggled up, tucking the blanket my dad or Mike must have put back on

  me last night under my chin. I wanted desperately to leap out of bed and grab my iP od so I could

  listen to David’s song again—but I couldn’t. If I tried to be independent, I’d quickly be reminded of

  how frail and how human I am, and every time I breathed or fell or felt pain, I was reminded again

  that I could never be with David, because I could never be like David.

  He should have loved me anyway—isn’t that what real love is? He expected me to gi ve up

  everything to love him, but it was never intended to work in reverse. I had to accept him as a killer,

  but he could never accept me for my weakness—being human.

  Feeling the familiar urge to cry, I tucked my hand under my pillow and buried my face, but

  held my breath when I felt something cold and stringy.

  Curious, I sat up and drew my hand from under my pillow, dragging the stringy thing with

  it. And as my hand folded out, the morning li ght caught the silver against my palm; I burst int o

  tears, covering my qui et gasp while unwelcome tears blinded me from the b eauty of the delicate

  heart. My locket!

  He left this—he must have been here. David was here, and I didn’t even know it.

  Why would he do thi s to me? Wh y would he leave thi s? I gave it back to hi m so I could

  move on—forget? Does he want me to be in pain forever, to never forget him?

  I sobered myself with a shaky gulp of air and wiped my cheeks with my sleeve. Of course he

  does. That’s exactly what he wants.

  Forever. I promised him my forever, and he promised me eternity—but I have to move on.

  He made me move on, but he will never let me go. He will taunt me with his memory so that

  I suffer the agony along with him.

  But, holding David’s locket in my fingers, I re alised that I di dn’t want to forget him. I felt

  empty when I tried. He may have left this to make me suffer, but I felt more complete than since the

  last time I was in his arms.

  I nodded to myself. I will wear it. I’ll keep David close to my heart—alive in my thoughts.

  Mike will know; he’ll know I still love David, but he’ll accept it—because he loves me.

  I am Ara, and David is a part of me. He will always be a part of me. Without David, there

  can be no Ara, and without Mike, there’d be no me either.

  I am complete as long as I have the other two halves of myself.

  I can never move on, not really. I can live for the rest of my life with Mike, and I will be his

  wife, but a part of me will always belong to David.

  As the fine inscription reads on the back of the locket, I belong to him. My heart belongs to

  him. After my mum died, he brought me back from the darkness of a world so shattered and so

  broken. I could no longer save myself, and it took the heart of a knight to pull me f rom the

  wreckage.

  I will wear his heart, and I will keep it against my own.

  “Forever,” I told myself as I linked the chai n around my neck and let it fall against my

  collarbones—back where it belonged.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Day passed and night descended again. Sometimes the monotony felt worse than the dark

  hell I was imprisoned in for so long—or at least...not that far off. Repetitive was the right word.

  “Made you soup,” Dad said, holding a bowl around the corner of my door.

  I sat up and smoothed the bedcovers flat on top of me. “Thanks, Dad.”

  The smell of onion and chicken stock followed hi m into my room, like a moist cloud. I took

  shallower breaths through my nose, trying to st op the scent from getting in and making me puke.

  “You didn’t eat your muffins.” Dad nodded to my bedside table—to the afternoon tea he’d brought

  up a few hours ago.

  I shrugged. “Wasn’t that hungry.”

  He held back the serving of complaint s, but not the si de of bli nking a f ew extra times.

  “Well, here. Eat this.”

  “Um, thanks.” I took the bowl of soup, wrapping my fingers firmly around the warmth, then

  looked up at Dad as he s
at beside me.

  “Ara, I—”

  “When can I go back to school?” I asked quickly, making Dad swallow the question in his

  tone.

  “School?” His brows rose. “I uh—school, huh?”

  I nodded, happy I’d averted another awkward ‘abduction’ question I had to pretend I

  couldn’t answer.

  “Well, uh—you’re not really well enough yet, honey.”

  “When will I be, Dad? I’m tired of staying in bed all the time.”

  He nodded, trying to convince me that he believed me, I think. “I thought you said you were

  never going back to school.”

  “Things change.” I looked at the soup.

  “Well.” He scratched his head and let out a short breath. “When you feel boredom—then

  you can go back.”

  “Boredom?”

  “Yeah. When you feel bored, it means you’re healed enough to resume normal life.”

  Boredom? The teen facade climbed the ladder of restraint, but instead of scowling at him, I

  smiled. I wish I felt boredom—boredom is normal. “Okay, Dad.”

  “Okay.” He smiled warmly, patted my leg, then took my plate of afternoon tea and left—

  without the stinky soup.

  Night wore on, and I listened to

  the familiar sound of di nner conversation going on

  downstairs—without me. Mike’s booming laughter flowed up the stairs and poked me in the heart. I

  wished I could laugh. I wished I could laugh with Mike. But he seemed to be avoiding me. I think.

  Or maybe he was just trying to give me some space, I wasn’t sure, but he hovered at my door a

  lot—hardly ever knocked or came in....just hovered. Unless I needed something. Care and help, but

  no companionship. It just wasn’t like us to be so distant. Before the attack, there were never closed

  doors between us, but now it seemed like even the windows were shut—and I was all alone on the

  other side.

  A screech of disapproval rose above the loud chatter of my family, and Vicki said, “Greg,

  you can’t say that. It’s politically incorrect.”

  Dad didn’t respond, but I pictured him covering his mouth with a fist, his face red with

  humour, his shoulders shaking with laughter.

  “But it’s true, Vicki,” Mi ke said, “It’s rude, yes, but...” I stopped listening. I didn’t want t o