Wednesday Writing: Blood of the Rose

I hear calling from far-away but keep on moving, through the over-grown grass, dress billowing out behind me. Whatever is in the distance, I need to get there; something, I’m not sure what, drives me forehead. I can see smoke rising in the distance, visible through a break in the trees, and I start to run. My soles are sore beneath my bare feet, my heart thumping against my chest, a burning sensation makes my lungs feel like they are going to be ripped apart. I’ve made it this far before, I recall, as I meet the edge of the field and move onto a gravel pathway. The sun that I could feel on the back of my neck, making sweat slide down underneath the satin of my dress, suddenly disappears; in its place is an emptiness I want to escape from. Ice.

 

The trees have a dusting of snow on their branches but, it’s not beautiful. It’s deadly. Sharp icicles that could pierce my chest hang from them too – and creatures I don’t recognise poise, keeping a watchful eye on me, preparing themselves to attack if that’s needed. High-above in one of them, I see a squirrel-like animal, it's coat matted and teeth baring sharp fangs. It holds a spear, light reflecting of it, that resembles the point of a knife.  I become immersed in this forest and, interspersed within the darkness, bright red poppies bloom. That’s new, I think, as I take a quick glance behind me, my entire body rigid, before reaching down to pick one up. One step further, I can feel how right this is. Reach down; I command my body, move. As my hands reach the stem and I take it between my fingers, delicately tracing my hand across the creases and lines, I’m startled by the sound of that voice again. My mum, trying to pull me away from here, trying to wake me for school. I almost scream in frustration, and furiously throw myself forward to grab the red-flower between my hands, determined to wake up before I find out what this means. As the image begins the blur, and my room comes into vision, the last thing I see a girl in her twenties appear. She is holding the rose.

 

 

***

My mum shakes me, trying to get me up. I blink a few times, adjusting my eyes to the light streaming through the lounge curtains. My neck cramps as I rise from the couch, my back aching from the night spent hunched up on the arm-chair. My hair is plastered to my forehead and I realise I must have fallen asleep. Again. There’s a cup that is tipped over on the floor, coffee spilling out of it onto the cream carpet and mum lets out a sigh, “Charlie, you’re going to have to stop this” I go to protest, but I never know what to think. The dreams – each night the reel goes on – and I can’t decide whether I want to reach the end. I decide it’s best not to but, when they begin, I know I don’t want to let go. 

“If this goes on, I’m going to have to get you a Doctor’s appointment” She points to my school uniform draped over a chair, freshly ironed, “You’re running late” 
 

I scramble up, my back covered in sweat. I head straight to the bathroom to splash my face in cold water, and as I look up, I see the women behind me. But, as I look closer, I realise she’s not behind me but more next to me. Her hands reach out and I take a sudden step back, worried about what she’s going to do to me, but instead she opens her palm in an attempt to take my hand in hers. At least, that's what I think she is trying to do. I soon noticed the scars that are sliced into her hands, and the shackles that are tied tightly around her wrist. Her hair is long, falling way-past her waist, and looks like it hasn't be brushed for a while. Her eyes are welled-up and she is shaking. She is trapped.  

I move away from the mirror, looking for anything to defend myself against her. I must have gotten water on the floor as the next thing I know there's a crash and I'm lying on the floor, bottles of shampoo and discarded mouth-wash flying out of the cupboard onto me. I notice the women watching, trying to reach me, and that's when I notice.

 

As the door flies open and I hear cries of dismay as I'm pulled to my feet, all I can think of is the blood that pours from a prick on her finger, down to the floor beside me. The blood is from the rose in her hand. My rose. Not hers.

This piece of work belongs to Sophie Louise, and therefore, should not be copied or re-produced without permission first.