The Knight Of The Rose (23 page)

what he knew was in my heart. And I wanted to say it—wanted to tell him I loved him, but my

mouth just hung open like a frog waiting for a fly.

He pulled me back to his chest and pressed play on the remote.

As the opening credits rolled acro ss the base of the scr een, I closed my eyes and lis tened to

the hum of human normality. I love this. I love Mike, and I wish I’d told him that. I wish he just

knew. When I’m with him like this, snuggled up in his arms like we’re already together, I get the

strong urge to tell him I’ll go back to Perth.

But then, when I walk away, go to my window and look beyond the eastern hills where David

ran to that day he told me what he is, I can’t help the inexplicable gut wrench that makes me want to

scream to the world below and tell them to find hi m for me—to bring him back so he can change me

into a vampire.

It’s not fai r of me to off er myself to Mike when, in my heart , I’m not totally decided on

David. So I haven’t said anything yet, and I don’t know if I will. I just don’t want to hurt him if I

ever do see David again and he convinces me to change my mind.

“Ara?” Mike swept his hands through the front of my hair, hi s voice coming low from above

my brow.

“Mm,” I muttered sleepily, keeping my eyes closed.

“You still with me, baby?”

“Hm?”

“Shh.” He kissed my head and the volume on the TV became lower. “Just sleep.”

The smell of morning and the crass s ound of a crow somewhere outside brought my mind

back from sleep. I rolled up on my elbows and looked around the room—my room.

Wait,
my
room?

Feeling as though I was holding my breath, I clarified everything in my mind; my room was

dark, the curtains closed—obviously by Mike, and unopened by David. The hous e sounded quieter

than usual. Even the gentle hum of cars and the distant chatter of schoolkids outside was absent from

the day; it almost sounded like a Saturday, but without the lawnmower.

Last night, while I fell asleep in my best friend’s arms, a few things became so clear to me

that I was afrai d clarity would be gone morning come. But the fee ling I had as sleep arr ested me

remained the same.

I jumped out of bed, dashed my curtains across and looked to the eastern hills. Somewhere

over that rise, somewhere further than I cared to imagine, my David went away. I could feel him, feel

his soul aching beyond the rising sun. He never told me where he lived, or even which direction he

ran to each night, but I could feel him over there—somewhere.

Down below, nestled in to t he long yellow-tipped grass in the backyard, the oak tr ee sat

gloriously staring back up at me. As many times as we’d studied each other, I had also let my heart

skip a beat, expecting to see David beneath its leafy bows.

But, for some reason, when I watched the gentle motion of the rope swing, absently touching

the brittle bark for a second before floating along the wistful breeze, I was surpri sed none that he

wasn’t there. The only thing pres ent was that warm feeling I had in Mike’s arms last night, which

suddenly burned into a flaming heat within me.

With a tight fist, I rubbed the left side of my chest and winced against the brightness of the

morning.

Is it possible that Mike managed to crawl his way a little bit deeper into my heart while I was

sleeping, or that my brain has finally comprehended the fact that David’s gone—that even tomorrow,

when I look f or him on the stage where he shoul d be performing our duet, I won’ t see him? Do I

finally get the message?

Clutching my locket, I backed away from the window and turned to face my dresser mirror.

I think I finally do get it.

I sat down on the stool and slowly swiped my hair from my face; the girl in the mirror did the

same.

“He is gone, isn’t he?” she said. Well, I think she did, anyway.

“Yes.” And I knew he wouldn’t re turn for anything. Not for the concert, not for al l the tears

in the world, not if Skittles got stuck in the tree, and not even if I threw myself from the window and

splattered all over the ground.

David Knight is gone—for good.

So, then, why don’ t I feel anything? I should be crying or kicking t hings. The admission of

fact should change something in me.
Anything
. But it hasn’t.

The girl in the mirror looked out at me; her pale-blue eyes reflected the hazy lines of a yellow

sun. When she smiled, I looked away. That reflection told a different story to the reality of the world

behind me. My room was light and airy, with th e softness of a morning decided on summer all

around, while her world—the world beyond the glass—was a dar k forest, backdrop to t he face of a

lonely girl, trapped, staring out from beyond her prison of secrets. Love was the key—my starry

night, my David—but he left.

I remembered back to t he day I first thought of him as the ni ght, and how, in that same

thought, I smiled for Mike, because he was always my blue sky; my happiness.

I looked back at the mirror. The contours of the girl’s face became shadowed as the sun rose

around her and the light touched the darkest shadows of her illusory cage. The iron bars behind her

were really white tree-trunks, and the leaves became visible as green star-shaped foliage for the first

time. Blue sky. The night was gone, now, there would always be the blue sky.

But is it enough?

I looked away from her again, seeing her hopeful smile dissolve before I turned my head.

My stomach grumbled; the ogre’s attempt to steal the attention. I clutched my hands to my

belly. I need to think. I can’t go down there and have breakfast with Mike. I might tell him I love

him and then regr et it when I come back to my room, cl ose my door and feel the emptiness of

missing David again.

“Run,” the girl in the mirror said.

“Run?” I looked back at her.

She smiled and nodded. “Run.”

A sneaky tempo guided my steps as I passed the dining area where Vicki and Mike sat

laughing and drinking coffee. Then, without first eating, ran out the front door.

My shoes tapped the pavement soft ly at f irst, but as I reached the end of the drive, they

picked up. I zipped my sweater up around my neck—trapping my lock et inside. It wasn’t cold, but

for some reason I felt exposed and naked. Like I was being watched or followed. I think a part of me

knew that if Mike caught a glimpse of me running from the house without him, he’d come after me.

And I really didn’t want that. I really needed to be by myself for a while.

There was a pa rt of me that kept trying to believe that the reason David hadn’t come was

because he’d been held up at work or hadn’t realised how much time had passed since we last spoke.

But the part of me that knew David, also knew he wasn’t that absent-minded.

No. He’s not here because he has no intention of coming back. I wonder if he fell out of love

with me when he realised how deep my connection with Mike went. If he was lingering around the

day Mike confessed his love, then he would’ ve heard an awful lot of thoughts a girl wouldn’t want

her boyfriend to hear about another man.

I wonder if he really did have to go to New York for two weeks, or if he just told me that so

he could quietly sneak around and intrude on my thoughts.

I smiled as I jogged past a couple in matching tracksuits. But the smile wasn’t for them, even

though they smiled back; it was for me—because I knew my David, a nd I knew that was exactly his

intention. I should’ve realised the whole New York thing was a complete lie . I mean, it was pretty

convenient how he came up with it right after he found out how I felt about Mike.

Great. I stopped running. I’m such an idiot.

Feeling unbelievably weak and tir ed, I bee-lined for a park-bench and graced the seat with

my bottom. The leafy shade of the tree f elt nice, protective, almost. I looked around the park at the

children playing in the distance—the mums and dads pushing their kids on the swings, and even t he

big sisters running to their little brother’s aide when they fell over or got sand in their mouth. It made

me miss Harry—miss being a big sister.

Flopping back with my chin tilted to the cool breeze, I let my troubles consume me; including

the fact that the only moisture left in me was the salty, sticky mask of sweat the wind was drying off

my brow.

I still loved the way a breeze felt on my face; it took a month for my wounds to heal enough

that I’d let Dad take me in public—on a plane, over to his home.

My days were spent in a motel, in the dark—a way from civilisation. I never even l et Mike

see me. Dad tried to let him i n once, but I screamed and freaked out like I was going to tear myself

apart. I couldn’t let him see me like t hat. I felt so ashamed—felt like a monster, and worse—looked

like one.

By the time Dad brought me here, there were only a few yellowing bruises left, and I could

bear the wind on my face—never to take it for granted again.

It brushed my hair over my cheek in a tickly touch, like a thousand butterflies dancing on my

skin, and in the simplicity of the sunny day, surr ounded by trees and grass, I could almost imagine I

had no problems. Even the song of the birds seemed to have a tune to it, al most like I was in some

twisted version of a Disney film. I half expected the woodland animals to gather at my feet as I broke

into song.

For the first time in weeks, I lowered my head and took a good look at my f ingers. These are

my mum’s hands, but they’re bony and look weak now. Heartache has taken the spirit from them,

and though I want nothing more than to find the nearest piano and expel the song I’ve had stuck in

my head all morning, I wonder if I can truly play—for the feel of it—from the heart, anymore.

I slumped back on t he bench again. I don’t even know what’ s in my heart now. I used to be

sure it was Mike, then it knew nothing but David.

Now they seem to share a little piece each.

When my stomach gr owled again, I checked the watch Sam gave me for my fi fteenth

birthday—the sport watch he told me was to help time my runs so I’d realise I wasn’t as fas t as I

thought—and smiled, unabl e to see the time throug h a sudden rush of tears. He’s a good lit tle

brother. As much as I hate him sometimes, he’s my brother. And in my heart, I’ve never really let

myself believe that. But I am still a big sister, and though no one will ever replace Harry, I know that

if anything ever happened to Sam, he’d be just as irreplaceable.

And that’s the thing about love, really, isn’t it?

That there is no replacing the ones we love.

I’ll never replace David—not even with Mike.

Suddenly, the rise of emotion I should’ve had this morning wh en I finally admitt ed David

wasn’t coming back presented itself—screaming out from my heart in the form of a song.

A vibrant, tingling sensation warmed my fingertips; like static electricity before it charges out

on something metal.

I jumped up, ignoring the dizziness and narrowed vision of low blood-pressure, and ran for

the school.

I need to play.

The dark room echoed as the door closed behind me and the shadows swallowed me whole.

No one looked up, no one turned their heads, because the only t hing that greeted me was the pit ch

black. Everyone was at lunch, the auditorium set for the concert tomorrow night.

I kicked the door ajar a little with my foot, placed the door-stop in the crack and wrapped my

arms around me as I headed down the aisle, walking the path of the thin blue line of light fr om

outside. The warmth of the day remai ned with the light, and the emptiness and almost underground

cool of the auditorium made me shiver as I reached the stage.

I looked back for a moment, seeing only a fai nt outline of the seats along the isle, and the

base of the stag e, then felt my way up the stairs, keeping my hands out in front of me in case I

tripped.

“Ara?”

I stopped walking, convinced I’d heard a whisper under the creak of the wood floor. “H-

hello?” I waited; nothing. No one whispered back.

“Hello? Is anyone there?” My voice stayed low, almost as if I didn’t
want
an answer.

In the middle of the stage, feeling exposed and open to all whose eyes might be on me, I

looked to the curtains. The shadows carried an eerie chill, like a person may be lingering within—

waiting for me—while the strong feel of being watched crawled over my skin, tightening my pores.

I shouldn’t be in here. I should be at lunch, should be attending sc hool today like everyone

else. I hesitated a moment longer.

If I get caught in here, I’ll be in trouble.

Like a beacon of salvati on, the piano greeted me with all its glory, si tting majestically in the

middle of the stage. Di sregarding my thoughts, I took a seat and l ooked down at my hands on the

keys. Here, in front of the piano, I felt narrowed in, like I was inside some magical, invisible orb, and

no one could see me. For one moment I just needed to sit, just to exist in the space where music was

the centre of my world; where the only thing that mattered was the notes, the keys and me.

My heart was tr ying to make sense of things —of the last night I saw Davi d; when I fell

asleep in his ar ms and dreamed of my wedding an d the red rose. He b lames me f or having that