Crowned with Guilt

by S. K. Rose

  Opening the note proves difficult as my hands shake like a leaf, but after a minute, I can finally read the words:

  Happy Birthday, Tess! I know you were expecting a book so don’t be mad, k?

  Look, I know most days it feels like you’re trapped away in a dungeon by the evil Dragon (she’s a real WITCH with a capital B!) But it’s only because no one (except me of course, I’m a genius) has figured out yet that you’re secretly a beautiful princess in disguise.

  So, best friend, when you look at this, remember what you really are.

  Now get ready for some week-old cake! Hah!

  I read the note over and over until every word is seared into my brain. I set the note aside, reach into the box, and remove a piece of tissue paper revealing the most beautiful piece of jewelry I have ever seen.

  On a long chain sits a silver crown that comes to five points; each point holds a small diamond that sparkles even in the bad lighting. I absentmindedly wipe away fresh tears and lay the crown across the palm of my hand. Running my thumb across the jewels, a calm washes over me, and for the first time in a year, I smile.

  I smile, and then I laugh and think about good times—happy memories.

  I decide right then and there that I won’t spend the day crying and trying to make myself feel numb. Instead, I will spend the day with him, no matter how much it might hurt. I know it’s what he would want. After a few fumbled attempts, I’m finally able to clasp the chain around my neck. I look down at the crown, bringing it up to my lips for a quick kiss.

  Grabbing a backpack, I fill it with a water bottle and a few snacks I snagged from mom’s room. I head out to the backyard, purposefully making sure my eyes don’t stop to look at that specific spot on the cement.

  The place where he took his last breath.

  Before I know it, I find myself in front of the castle.

  Shaking my head, another small smile turns up the corners of my mouth as I try to remember why I had given it such a silly name. It’s just a giant overgrown bush. An ugly one at that, not something even close to resembling a castle.

  I find the hidden door, stiff and worn from being out in the weather for so long. I take a deep breath, hook the sheet back, and step inside.

  It’s all much smaller than I remember. I crawl in and lie down on the fresh blanket I’d picked up as I passed through the living room. Propping up on my elbows, I take it all in. There are some cobwebs and a lot of dust, but for the most part, everything is just as I remember it. I purposefully avoid looking directly above me, scared it might be all gone or destroyed, but even more terrified of feeling a fresh wave of agony and loss.

  My breath catches when I finally find the courage to look.

  The photos are all still there, and aside from a little wear and tear around the edges, they are perfect. Smiling and laughing faces stare back at me, granting me a moment of peace as I transport myself back into better days. Tears stream uncontrollably down my face, but for the first time in a long time, they don’t stem from an angry place.

  I remember the hours we spent reading and the silly voices we used to act out our favorite scenes. All the times he suffered through my tea parties, or the afternoons we spent catching strange bugs just to release them an hour later. I breathe in the earthy scent of dirt and pine needles and exhale slowly.

  The most beautiful new addition to my castle are the flowers that have begun growing alongside the shrub where sunlight filters through. I guess without a couple of kids stomping around, the undisturbed soil allowed for something to actually grow. The flowers are pink and white with huge petals, and the center of each one has a cluster of skinny white tubes that are topped with a ball of sticky pollen. All the blossoming flowers seem to come from one root that’s covered in thick, succulent leaves. I remember seeing flowers like this in my History textbook, they have medicinal properties if I’m remembering correctly.

  Bitterroot, that’s what they’re called. How fitting.

  I wonder if they can heal a broken heart.

  My tears dry up as I examine the flowers with fascination. A soft whispering noise jolts me out of the rare peaceful moment. Immediately I’m on high alert. It’s a cursed day for bad things, and I was foolish to let my guard down for even a second. My stomach clenches as I hold still. Terrified, I slowly turn to look toward the entrance where the sounds came from.

  Andrew.

  His grinning face shines with love and excitement, and I find myself straining to hear the words coming from his mouth as my heart pounds in my chest.

  “Happy Birthdaaaay, Tessa!”

  Then he’s gone.

  Just a vivid memory that’s all. Just breathe.

  Except I hear those soft whispering noises again, but this time I’m not confronted with the ghost of my past. My breath lets out slowly as I watch a handful of curious butterflies dance through the air toward me. The powder-white butterflies zigzag between branches with quaint rounded wings. One lands on my nose and I can’t help but laugh, immediately startling it away. I lie down flat, still my body, and slow my breathing, not wanting to disturb them any more than I already have.

  I watch in awe as the butterflies flit from flower to flower, occasionally landing on my arm or blouse.

  Why do these little butterflies seem so important?

  I blink slowly as my eyelids get heavy. Between blinks, I see Andrew’s smiling face next to me, and his hands brush across my body as he pulls me into his arms. I try to speak, but he shakes his head. A light tickle on my cheek feels like a soft kiss.

  Maybe he sent the butterflies here to protect me, is the last thought I have before drifting into a deep and mercifully dreamless sleep.

  Chapter 8

  ─────

  Fourteen Years Old

  Looking in the bathroom mirror, I hardly recognize the naked girl staring back at me. If possible, my skin has gotten even paler. Blue tendrils of veins run vibrantly down my neck and across my chest. I’m translucent, slowly disappearing. My long hair is ragged and unkempt, swept up out of my face into a messy bun. I brush on some dark makeup, laying the eyeliner on thick, not particularly caring that I look like a walking disaster.

  I’ve come to the wonderful realization that if I’m as ugly on the outside as I feel on the inside, my classmates tend to avoid me.

  When I deem school worthy of my royal presence that is.

  As I finish applying the final obnoxious wing onto my eyelid, I find myself intrigued. I see a subtle difference with my eyes, and, leaning closer to the mirror, I open them wide for inspection. Did the color change? No, that’s not quite right, but they are a little dull. They kind of remind me of those Hollywood zombies, all clouded over and lifeless. Interesting.

  After brushing my teeth, I slip into my favorite morning ritual since Mom’s been slacking in her punishments.

  Once my social worker gave the all clear and stamped us as a healthy, loving family, she seemed to lose all interest in having anything to do with me. I guess it was more fun when there was a little risk involved. Unfortunately, I got so used to having that constant pain to focus all my thoughts on that I couldn’t quite figure out how to function without it.

  I drag the small razor across the soft skin on my side, just below my armpit. I breathe in and out slowly, falling back against the door as I give in to the burning release. After a few minutes of bliss, I wipe away the blood that’s begun its slow descent down my ribs. Holding a piece of tissue paper to the cut, I apply pressure until the bleeding clots. Reluctantly, I return the shiny piece of solace back to the medicine cabinet. Before turning to leave, I give the mirror one last glance.

  “Happy Birthday, little Tessa,” I whisper, blowing my dreary reflection a kiss.

  Once I’m at the door, I reach to grab my backpack from the kitchen table, but my hand grasps empty air.

  She must have moved it as a quick glance around reveals it’s not anywhere in the kitchen. Retracing my steps, I find that in my rush I’d passed
right by her, backpack in hand, standing in the living room waiting for me. I stop in my tracks, still a good distance away, and hold out my hand for it. She hasn’t spoken to me in weeks and I highly doubt she remembers it’s my birthday. What’s her fucking damage?

  “Might I have my backpack, sweet Mother Dearest?”

  She doesn’t even flinch at the sneer in my voice or her loathed nickname.

  “Tessa, dear, is that any way to talk to your mother?” She lowers herself onto the couch, surrounded by a cloud of smoke from her lit cigarette. Laying my backpack across her knees, she sits back, watching me closely. She looks worse than hammered shit these days.

  Remember, drugs are bad, kids!

  Her dark, stringy hair is frayed to shit, and she’s way too skinny to be healthy.

  Hmm, sounds like me on both accounts. Except my issues aren’t from smoking crack.

  Squinting in the dim lighting, I scrutinize the pound of makeup caked on her face. It’s likely an attempt to make her look younger or maybe less. . . worn. Either way it’s wildly unsuccessful.

  “I’m going to be late to school,” I respond, impatiently tapping my foot. I was already running behind, got a little too caught up in my ritual.

  “You’re practically a skeleton. Are you eating enough? Come now, what boy is gonna want to date you if you’re all skin and bones?” She plants an exaggerated frown on her face. “And don’t even get me started on that hideous makeup!” She makes a tsking sound with her tongue.

  I almost can’t stop the obnoxious laugh threatening to break free. All her waitressing money goes straight to drugs, booze, and cigarettes. The free lunches at school are the only meals I have each day, making the weekends unbearable as I’m forced to figure out how the hell I’ll fill my stomach. Instead of laughing or giving a snarky response, I hold my tongue and continue to hold out my hand.

  I’ve learned to pick my battles with the Dragon.

  She sighs and suddenly looks very tired. “Oh, Tessa, stop giving me that look. I’m only teasing. I just wanted to make sure I saw you before you headed out. I know it has been a rough time for you lately.” She takes a long drag on her cigarette. “But I do love you, sweet girl. Now please give your old mom a hug before you take off.” She has a hopeful smile on her face as she holds her arms out to embrace me.

  I curse myself for even wanting to go to her. It’s been so long since I’ve had any physical human interaction, since I’ve had anyone’s arms around me in a warm embrace. I look at her warily and see something flicker just beneath the surface of her expression. I wonder if it’s regret. Maybe she wants to be a family again since I’m all she has left. She does seem pretty sober and lucid for once.

  After a few tentative steps, I bend slowly to give her a quick hug.

  I should have known better than to give in to the weakest part of me.

  I gasp as nails bite into my flesh, her claws hooking around my left wrist. She yanks me so close that I’m practically choking on the overwhelming stench of tobacco.

  It’s been years since my overactive imagination has taken over. Lately, when I experience fucked-up shit, my mind no longer protects itself by conjuring up magical fairytale creatures. Instead, when mom fucks a stranger on my mattress, all I see is mom fucking a stranger on my mattress. But in this moment, cigarette smoke blowing out her nose, I see her once more as a dragon—the same way I did a lifetime ago.

  With a death grip on my wrist, she begins screeching in my ear, “He is gone because of you, little cunt. Not just in prison anymore, no, no. I just found out that someone wasn’t too fond of your daddy, the child murderer. So yesterday, your Daddy was raped, stabbed in the eyes, and slashed across the throat. They found him face-down, naked as a baby in the prison showers. Oh, dear, I’m forgetting something though, aren’t I? What could it be? Oh! That’s right! Happy fucking birthday, sweet daughter.” Her words seethe with venom and absolute hatred, a cruel smile pulls back her lips to display rows of sharp fangs.

  Bile rises in my throat as my mother graphically details the image of my dead father. I try to swallow it down, but as if she can sense my horror, her face looms even closer, plastered with a deadly smile.

  Then comes the pain. A searing burn on my neck forces out an involuntary yelp. My panicking, delusional brain fears for a second that she’s learned to breathe fire. I rip myself out of her claws and her smile widens as if she would like nothing better than to swallow me up with a single bite. Her glassy red eyes are wild with contempt and a dash of wicked glee, her scales bristle with excitement.

  Closing my eyes and reopening them, I see the world once more as it truly is. My hand flies up to the searing pain on my neck.

  She put her cigarette out on me.

  Fucking bitch.

  Flicking the cigarette butt at me, she throws my backpack across the room, and saunters up the stairs and into her bedroom. The door clicks shut behind her, I’m alone once more.

  She gambled, knowing I might cave for one small chance of human connection, especially today.

  It was a gamble, and she hit the jackpot.

  That flicker of emotion in her eyes wasn’t remorse, it was triumph knowing she’d found a brand-new way to hurt me. I stand there a few more moments, letting the urge to vomit pass, holding an internal conversation with myself. I repeat my newest mantra for the millionth time this year. Soon you will be old enough to get a job and leave this hellhole.

  Do not give up, do not let her break you. Do NOT think of him.

  I repeat the words as I clutch the crown around my neck, grateful the cool metal can still calm my boiling blood.

  I walk slowly to school, and by the time I finally arrive, I’ve missed an hour and second period has started. I get checked in at the front desk and head to P.E. With a late pass clutched in my shaky grip, I use my free hand to let my hair down and hide the angry burn.

  It’s free time, so if I walk around the track at least twice I can do whatever I want within reason, as long as I’m outside and out of trouble. After the track, I sit under a tree and lean my head back against the rough bark. My classmates laugh and play together, seemingly without a care in the world.

  I watch them, feeling my skin turn green with envy, refusing to let any tears escape. Annoyed by my weakness I blink them away as a familiar, skinny boy comes up to me.

  “Can I sit here?” He gives me a toothy smile. I say nothing; do nothing. “It’s Tessa, right?” Slight nod. “Not much of a talker, are you?” He laughs.

  “Guess not,” I mumble.

  “I’m Vincent.”

  “Yeah, I think we have another class together,” I say absently.

  “Yeah, fifth period actually. So, bad morning?”

  “You could say that,” I scoff, picking up a pinecone and breaking off bits.

  “So like. . . well, are you dying?” he asks quietly.

  “What? No! What a crazy thing to ask.” I look over to the strange boy for an explanation. I scan his face, but don’t see the malice or idiocy I often find in boys my age. He seems different.

  “Well then, I guess it could be worse, right?” He gives me a weak smile, and I raise an eyebrow in return. “So, do you want to maybe be friends?” he adds hesitantly.

  “Because I’m not dying?”

  “No,” he says with a chuckle.

  “So, you’re not freaked out by me?” I ask wide-eyed.

  “Nope.”

  “Then, sure, I guess,” I say with a shrug. I don’t have the energy for my usual fuck-off-and-die attitude today. I’m just so. . . tired.

  “Okay, cool.” He gives me another goofy smile.

  “You know everyone else avoids me, right?” I prod, still suspicious of a malicious motive.

  “Don’t care.” His eyes move down my face and then widen. “Hey, what’s that on your neck?” He points to the exposed burn.

  I quickly move my hair to cover it up. “Nothing.”

  He looks at me, and for a minute I suddenly reali
ze what’s different about him; it’s his eyes. He has eyes like an adult’s—wise and maybe a little weary. Like he knows something the rest of us don’t.

  “It will be okay someday.” He speaks quietly, but the words reverberate loudly in my mind, giving me a small amount of peace.

  “Ooooooh look, ladies, the geek and the freak! So cute it makes me want to throw up.” Lilah’s best friend, Hanna, mocks us loud enough for her friends to join in on the laughter.

  Instead of walking away from the spiteful bitch drama, Vincent stands and reaches for my hand to help me up. After taking my hand in his, he flips them the bird and leads me away towards the cluster of classrooms. I hear a gasp and then a lot of yelling as the girls curse us out in the distance. I beam over at Vincent with awe and a little bit of pride.

  I think I’ve just made a friend.

  And the best of friends we were, thick as thieves for about three weeks before he stopped coming to school.

  I asked his friends and teachers, but they didn’t seem to know anything either.

  An uneasy silence.

  Another week passed, and an assembly was called that Friday. As my classmates sat on bleachers, the principal made a speech about the sudden loss of one of our own, and how grief counselling would be made available.

  I knew who it was before the name was ever read out.

  Vincent had stomach cancer. His family had known about it for a while, but they were respecting his wishes and allowing him to go about life like normal, though daily, he was in quite a bit of pain. They had to pull him out when his symptoms drastically escalated, and he died just two days after that.

  I replayed our first meeting, and that’s when our strange conversation finally clicked. He knew he was dying, must have seen how sad and angry I always was, and thought maybe he wasn’t alone. He never mentioned being sick, but if I had to guess it’s because he didn't want to be treated differently. He just wanted one normal thing in his life.