Rose

My rose. She pricks me, a thorn in my side, but it is tender and soothing. A kiss within a bite. She is on my mind, all consuming. I drown in her. My rose. 

August 18, 1882

I whisper her name when I fall asleep. In my bed, or outside in the graveyard. My ghost.

Rose.

My cheeks blush in the summer heat. Hers are pale, her skin ice cold. 

She is so slender that holding her in my arms is like holding a shadow. I suppose that is what she is. A shadow of a past unknown to me. 

She has never opened up about her death, and she threatened to burn down the manor if I ever asked anyone.

Her threats are always empty, just like her body. No organs, no tissue.

I pull her tighter.

She looks down at me as we sway on the checker patterned dance floor. 

Yesterday I told her I hate when she wears high heels, since we are the same height without our shoes. Today, she towers over me like an unforgiving flame.

Her eyes burn. Candles in the moonlight. She need not threaten to burn down the manor, fore she lights a fire in my chest. Enough that I would burn down a forest if it meant seeing her in more than just my dreams. 

I breathe in her scent from where I rest my head in the crook of her neck. She smells like cinnamon and roses. So sweet, like a bite out of a peach.

To test my theory, I open my mouth and suckle on her collar bone. Her body shakes as she giggles.

“Weirdo,” she sighs. 

I laugh and clutch her shoulders, smiling into her neck. “I can’t help it. You’re irresistible.”

“For now.” Her blonde curls tickle my nose as her head sways to the rhythm of the piano. 

She hums the tune, her throat rumbling beneath my lips. 

My eyes close. I am lulled to sleep by her soft humming. 

And then I am awake.

The smell of cinnamon and rose is replaced by the scent of wet earth.

The sad piano has retired. Now the rain takes its place and bears down on me like angry drums.

I close my eyes and hope to drown.

…

October 31, 1882.

“I don’t see why you enjoy All Hallows’ Eve. It’s quite morbid- is it not? I say, all day for you is All Hallows’ Eve. What’s even the use of celebrating such a day?” 

“Simply?” I interrupt breathily, “Because I enjoy being anything else.”

We lie in a garden. My head on her stomach. She wears a white dress, as white as the daisies that grow around us, while mine is as black as the night sky above.

I steady a pumpkin in my hand, as with my other, I carve out the smile of the Jack O’ Lantern, gritting my teeth as I focus. 

“I find you much more beautiful when you are all you,” Rose quips. “I’m sure whatever gentleman captures your heart, he’ll believe that, too.”

I frown. “I don’t know. You haven’t seen me in my costume yet- and no man ever will- It might change your mind.” 

She is silent as I carve at the pumpkin. The only sound, my grunts of frustration and the knife against the hollow gourd. Her stomach rising and falling.

“What do you plan to do with that poor pumpkin? ...That’s not your costume, is it? Would that fit over your big head, you think?” 

I pause, examining my work. I hadn’t been listening to her, too focussed to register her words.

“Did you ever eat the pumpkin’s seeds when you were alive?” I ask.

Rose looks down at me, cocking her head to the side. “Now why on earth would I do such a thing?” She grins. “Those seeds are it’s young, you know?” 

I roll my eyes. “Don’t pretend you’re any better than me, Lady Rose. Miss proper Lady Rose!”

She narrows her eyes. “Haha,” she deadpans. “But you are better than me, Miss Melancholy! After all, you’re alive.” 

There is always the slightest hint of jealousy in her quips. She will never settle down her pride to admit it, but I know she envies my state of consciousness. I get to wake up, she remains at rest. 

My smile falls. “What is it like when I leave you?” I ask with no particular thought. The words are gentle, a tickle at the back of my throat. A whisper on my lips. 

She blinks. Her eyes remain on mine. They are nectar. Soft, golden brown spills of honey and cinnamon. 

After a while she answers, “Lonely.”

…

December 24, 1882.

“You don’t like Christmas, the holiest of holidays?” Rose quips. “Why am I not surprised?” She rolls her eyes, but keeps her smile bright.

I say nothing, hoping my own smile will be enough to keep her from questioning my mood.

I don’t find the Christian holidays enjoyable. If I were to tell Rosa that, I’m sure she’d go straight to Heaven and then straight back with an angel on her coattails.

“I have a gift for you.” She tugs on my arms and starts to lead me through the thick snow. “Come on. But don’t peak.”

“I don’t like gifts, either.” I mutter. As I close my eyes. Or surprises.

Rose scoffs. I stifle a laugh.

We come to a stop after a few short seconds. 

“Alright. Before I make the grand reveal, promise me you won’t be disappointed it is not morose or...medieval...” 

“I can’t promise I won’t feel misunderstood.”

“Oh, stop,” she jokes. “Now look!”

I obey her command. 

I am back in the graveyard.

Awake.

Every time I leave her, it is as if I have lost her. Like she has died again, but now I am here to see it.

I open my eyes, knowing that the cold will be my last memory if I don’t warm myself inside.

Standing, I spot it.

A few feet beside me, growing out from beneath the glistening snow, are blush pink roses. 

I can’t help but smile. Overcome with excitement I rush over and kneel beside the flowers, taking one in my hand and putting it beneath my nose. 

I inhale, and my eyes well up with tears. 

Cinnamon and roses.

…

December 25, 1882.

“How did you do it?” I ask, giddy with excitement. “If you can make roses bloom in the snow- what else can you do?”

Rose shakes her head, her eyes kind. “Well, I can’t bring myself back to life if that is what you’re getting at.” her face falls. “Giving life to something else is the only life I am able...the only thing I can offer.” She smiles but it doesn’t reach her eyes. She looks down and mumbles to herself, “Just not back then…” 

I take her hand, and place it on my cheek, leaning into her touch. 

She is cold year round, but she never fails to make my skin burn. 

My rose on fire.

“You offer so much more than life to flowers.” I kiss her palm. “I had been so scared you were just a dream...but you’re alive. You’re mine.”

Tears prick my eyes, tickling my frosted skin as they run down my face. Like warm streams cutting through ice. 

Something like fear falls with them, escaping my body as I cry and attempt to bury myself in Rose’s open hand. 

I want to drown myself in her.

“I was so scared,” I sob. 

“Evette,” she whispers. Her arms wrap around me as she pulls me to her.

I burrow into her neck and clutch at her. “Don’t leave me,” I inhale a sob. I melt in her arms like candle wax.

Drown. Drown until I can’t breathe without smelling cinnamon and rose.

“Evette,” she repeats.

“Please. I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to leave.” I shiver as I dig my nails into her back, squeezing her tight enough to break her ribs. 

Drown. 

I squeeze tighter. I can’t breathe. 

Drown.

My fingernails break her skin. I dig in, anchoring myself to her.

Drown.

…

January 6, 1883.

 “You have to leave.” Rose’s tone is steady, but her smile is shaky. “This is how life goes. Even in death. You’re always a woman.”

I am still, sitting across from her, our bodies separated by a picnic table and a thick tension. 

It has been like this since Christmas. She pulls away each time I see her. Farther away than last night, despite only a table between us. 

I know she wants me to leave. She’s known my future since before I ever have.

It’s her past.

“I’m not leaving you. Not for anything. Not for this.” I betray my reserve, my voice stern and unwavering. The snow that meets my skin diffuses like hot ash in water.

Rose examines me, her delicate eyes brushing over me, painting my skin flush.

“Whatever it is you see in me, Evette…” Evading my eyes, she adjusts her satin dress, a blood red stain in contrast to the pure snow that is her skin. She smiles sadly. “I’m dead.”

I shake my head. “You’re not dead.” I get out of my chair and kneel at her side. I reach out and hold her face in my hands. “See? I can feel you.” I put my forehead to hers and brush my lips against her own. “I can taste you.” I move to kiss her but she pushes me back.

“Stop this.” Her voice quivers. She rubs my shoulders in a soothing way, but her attention is focused on me as her eyes look deep into mine. “Just...stop.”

I don’t know what to say. I look down to her trembling lips, waiting for her to open them and tell me to kiss her to take the ache away. 

“It’s okay,” I whisper. As I move in to kiss her, I am taken by surprise as I am pushed away harder than last time. More final.

“Evette,” 

Rose stands up, and with shaking knees I stand with her. 

The air is still as if awaiting her words.

She inhales, her voice shaking. “You are to be married. As a proper woman. To a proper man.”

I try to protest, but she silences me as she grabs my hands.

“You are. Listen to me. I am dead. Dead. Gone. Deceased. I don’t exist. This- this will die with time. What you feel...you’ll feel that for your husband. You have to. Otherwise...” she trails off. “Otherwise you’ll be just like me.”

Tears burn in my eyes. “I don’t care about a husband! I care about you!”

She shakes my hands. “Evette, I am dead!” Her voice cracks. She takes a moment to collect herself. “I am sorry. But this is how it is. You have to let me go!”

“No. No! You made those roses bloom in the snow. There has to be some life left in you. Or, or maybe it’s witchcraft, or magic... or maybe it’s the sheer…” I grit my teeth. “Maybe it’s the sheer...fucking power of love!” I ignore her cry at my curse and break her hold on my hands as I put them on either side of her face. 

She shakes underneath my touch and her wet eyes flit over my features as if she is terrified of how much she longs to give in. 

I groan, straining to keep myself from bursting into tears.. “I love you. You. Not a man. Not anyone else. I only love you.” 

Her hands grasp my own. I close my eyes at her touch and wrap my arms around her as I fall into her chest, collapsing into sobs. 

She loses her grip on my hands and instead runs her trembling fingers through my hair as she nuzzles my head with her face.

“I love you, too,” she whispers. She sniffs my hair and laughs softly against my scalp. I imagine her honery smile, preparing to bruise me with her sharp wit. “Besides, you’re the only one that’s visited me in the past four years. It’d be impossible to have high standards.” 

I pull her closer as our laughter fades. “You’ll come with me?” 

She pulls away and smiles at me sadly. She takes my hands. “I’m in the roses.” She kisses my forehead. “I’m in your head.” She bites her lip and blinks up at me from beneath her eyelashes. “I’m not going anywhere for as long as you can remember me.”

My head falls, and my eyes stare down at the remnants of my shattered heart.

She kisses the top of my head and hugs me. “Don’t make the same mistakes I have in thinking that your life is worth forsaking for your heart...You’re- we’re- not the exception to history. All we’ll ever be is judged for our perceived transgressions. I know- we know, deep down, we are not wrong, but they don’t. 

“They believe we deserve this loneliness, that it is a curse. Maybe some believe it to be a cure... But as a woman, as the type of person that you are, all you will be is lonely. Lonely until you can’t stand it anymore. So please, Evette, marry him. Love him- in any way that makes it less lonely. And when you forget me- and you will... don’t fight it. Don’t give in to pride. Don’t be like me.”

…

Rose. She pricked me, a thorn in my side, but it was tender and soothing. A kiss within a bite. She was on my mind, all consuming. I drowned in her. My Rose.

...

September 5, 1885

It’s been years since she last pricked me with her magnificent poison. 

Without the antidote of her cool touch, It left me with years of sleepless nights tormented by a fading shadow.

I pace the graveyard. Golden leaves litter the ground. Dying rose bushes surround the manor, while the ones in the graveyard blush with life. 

The air smells of cinnamon and rose, and underneath it is the humidity of a late Summer.

My shoes crunch the leaves as I make my way to Rose’s grave. 

I used to resent the fact she never told me how she died, but now I've grown to understand it. That pride of hers. That unwavering refusal to admit her anguish. 

I do the same now with Mr. Blake. 

“He doesn’t understand me, and I don’t want him to,” The crunching leaves come to a stop as I stand still at her grave. “Still…”

Rose Remington 1860-1879.

“He’s the one who convinced me to come back.”

I look down at the flowers in my hand, red roses I had forgotten I’ve been carrying. I smirk as I toss them onto her grave. “Blake’s idea. He said he thinks it’s fitting. ‘Roses for Rose’” I snort and settle onto my knees. The leaves rustle as I try to get comfortable. 

“He thinks I knew you in life, asked me how you died. I said you died in a fire- I don’t know why I said it. Maybe I do. Maybe. Maybe... Maybe it’s because it was the only thing I could think of since you left me. All I’ve wanted to do for the past three years is burn alive. You’d tell me that’s morbid, wouldn’t you?”

I close my eyes and play with the leaves. “The truth is, I don’t want to remember you. You were right, Rose, you’re dead. I didn’t realize that until I left. I realized you weren’t anywhere. Not asleep, not having brunch, not with friends…” I shake my head. “...Dead. Completely. Utterly. Perfectly...dead.”

I open my eyes. “You once said that death was lonely. I thought about that every night after you left. How much pain was in your eyes. How much...lifelessness. Now I think… Now I think you weren’t just lonely in death. I think that long, long before you ever died you had been alone… perhaps it’s what killed you.” I sighed. “I haven’t asked anyone how you died. I don’t want to know anymore. I just…” I swallow, my throat dry. “I just want to put you to rest. Then I can sleep soundly.” 

I get up from my knees and to my feet. Holding my stomach with one hand, I touch the gravestone with my other. 

A proper lady‘s goodbye.

“Being a woman isn’t a death sentence. Neither is being...different,” I smile as tears threaten to fall. They hold still at the corners of my eyes, like the air. “I’ve...I’ve created a life…” I smile. “And you’re right. It’s lonely. Even with child, I feel empty most days. 

“I have Mr. Blake. I have wealth, land, a well-stocked pantry, but I don’t have the love I crave. The love we had.” I run my hand over the smooth texture of the stone as I gather my thoughts. “We… people like us...we’re like fire. Strong. Powerful. A force to be reckoned with.

“Society may treat us like we are no more than embers to extinguish with their... bloody holy water, but… I don’t believe our history is doomed. I don’t believe it’s so…” I laugh. “Morose…-a funny thing for me to admit- but I do. I believe. In us. I always have. I think that’s why you loved me… I gave you hope. And I think you hated feeling that hope because you’d lost it before. But I have it. Mr. Blake has it. More of the world than I will ever know has hope that things will change. For now, we just work our way into flames.”

I look at the pink flowers and kneel down to smell them one last time.

Cinnamon and roses.

I close my eyes and drown.