The Knight Of The Rose (46 page)

broken, suffering 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.

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 sat 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

hear what they were saying. I didn’t want to be a part of their conversation—nor did I want to sit

here wishing I was.

I clutched my secret locket and waited for the arrival of another tear-provoked sleep.

When the taps stopped running and the lights and doors were positioned in their nightly rest

stop, I snuggled down in my bed, closed my eyes and imagined David beside me.

“How are you feeling?” the appar ition asked, smiling at me; I could almost feel the solidit y

of his fingers as he trailed them along my hairline.

“Better now you’re here.”

He went to smile, then looked up when my door popped open; I quickl y tucked the l ocket

away, hiding a smile under my feigned sleep. It must be midnight.

Mike walked in and stood over me for a second. As us ual, I kept my eyes closed. I think

he’s afraid I might disappear while he’s sleepi ng. He always checks my window, too—forces it

down and locks it into place. Maybe he’s scared the attacker will come back—looking for me.

But he doesn’t have to worry—I check the window a few times before I go to bed myself. I

have to, even though walking takes a lot of effort, and I all but fall into bed after—I can’t ask them

to do it for me. I don’t want them to know I’m afraid. They
can’t
know that.

Mike lingered for longer than usual; he leaned down beside me in the dar kness and stroked

my hair—as always, then stopped, and everything went still. A soft tinker filled the silence between

us when he touched my neck and pulled the silver chain from under my shirt.

“Ara—” he sighed my name out, his warm, heavy breath brushing across my nose and lips.

But, he placed the locket gent ly back down on my chest, instead of ripping it away—like he

probably should have.

Well, I guess the secret’s out now. I suppose I’ll be getting grilled tomorrow.

“Oh, Mike—I didn’t realise you were in here,” my dad whispered into the darkness.

“Yeah, I like to check on her before I go to bed,” Mike said with a deep, husky whisper. The

warmth of his body disappeared.

“I’m worried about her, Mike.” The light I could feel filtering in from the hall disappeared. I

opened one eye to see my dad lean against my dresser.

Mike took a breath through his nose, and folded his arms. “I know.”

“I don’t think she’s okay, you know. She plays it tough—” Dad looked right at me; I closed

my eye again. “But I never even see her cry. Not once—surely something like this has got to leave a

girl feeling
something
?”

Mike went silent for a second. “She cries,” he stated after a deep sigh. “I know you don’t see

it, but that’s because she wants everyone to think she’s okay.”

“But she’s not okay. How do you know she cries? Does she talk to you?”

I opened my eyes a litt le; Mike shook his head. “But I hear her. At ni ght, when she thinks

everyone’s asleep. She cri es, Greg.” Mike looked at Dad. “A f ew times I’ve hovered by her door,

trying to decide if I should come in—but she smiles and plays it cool when I catch her.” There was

a pause. “No—I don’t think she’s okay, either. Come to think of it—she needs to talk to someone.”

“Maybe she’ll talk to Emily?” Dad suggested.

No, I won’t.

“I doubt it—just give her time,” Mike said.

I rolled over and stirred—deliberately—to get them and their gossip out of my room.

“I’ll try and talk to her tomorrow,” Mike concluded. “But don’t worry, she is still capable of

feeling.”

“I hope so,” Dad said. “Otherwise...” His pause lasted a little too long.

I tensed. Otherwise what?

“I know,” Mike said. “But she’s alive, Greg.”

“I’m starting to wonder if that’s all that counts.”

It’s not, Dad. I wish I
had
died. There was a point in the darkness when I wanted to come

back, but not to this. Not the nightmares I have for the way Jason touched me, the emptiness I feel

for the way David left me, and for the grief that hits me when I stand na ked in the shower—feeling