Crushed Rose

On campus in May, the roses in the plastic tubs are blooming. It’s still too early for sunflowers, though she remembers them being around during the early weeks of that carefree first year when the best part was making new friends. Rosie had felt free then, capable of doing anything, overcoming every obstacle. If fate and sheer hard work had given her the chance to escape the demons of her past, she didn’t want to get it wrong.

Except she had, and it was all because of him!

Telling herself she’s only visiting his office before the first exam so he can wish her luck, she catches the alarm in his eyes as he rises to greet her from his desk. There’s little point ringing when he mostly ignores her calls.

“Don’t worry. You’ll be fine. You’re a good student, Rosie.” A sheen has formed on his upper lip, a lip once bitten in the heat of passion. The panic-edged voice is less attractive than the smooth velvety one. If he knew the reason for the cramping in her abdomen and the red shot eyes, he’d be scared shitless. The self-assured mask would slip that bit more if he thought he’d been anything less than careful.

Of course, he’s bound to come out of this smelling of roses. His type always does. With his brilliant brain and connections…

What chance has she against all that?

At any rate, she doesn’t think he’s ever known what it’s like to have to struggle until your very soul bleeds. He’s unfamiliar with the concept of scraping by or even scraping through. Life has never been that cruel.

Good looking and confident, one to watch in academic circles, his single status a subject of much speculation in a semi-cloistered community. It seems everyone wants to bag him. Or at least, bed him.

And for a while, that had been her.

A guiltily kept secret, he’d covered his tracks well.

+++

Only a few days earlier, she’d stood outside his door wanting to ask him what she should do about the screaming red.

But she knew what he would have said.

By now, painkillers have reduced the cramping to a dull ache.

Shaky, and only slightly reassured after leaving him, she continues on her way to the examination hall, thinking of those roses.

Maybe the roses he picked for her on their third “date” came from one of those tubs. Pink to match the roses in her cheeks.

Even now, she flushes at the memory of them together. Hardly a shrinking violet then. But the pink roses soon turned into screaming reds, the kind with nasty hooky thorns.

+++

Two months earlier, he’d told her he was sorry, that he’d made a mistake, and it was all over. Even though his classes had finished, every so often she’d catch a glimpse of him whilst passing through corridors that smelt of oppression rather than the minty tang of former times. Now the sanctuary walls have closed in, become more of a muted grey than a soothing green. Devoid of the light that had given her purpose through much of the third year, she had her own way of keeping track, covering over the marks on her arms with plasters and long sleeves.

Somehow in the weeks before the exams, she’d managed to put aside the nausea, dragging herself out. Whenever she’d bumped into him, he’d looked through her rather than at her.

The irony was she’d loved attending his classes because he was a great teacher. Just listening to his voice made her want to do better. Now, it’s an effort to get her feet to obey her brain and perform the simplest tasks. Walking along once almost hallowed ground, she forces herself not to cry out. She mustn’t lose sight…of herself. She’s still the same person.

Isn’t she?

+++

In the hall, the desks are laid out in columns with each candidate’s examination number clearly marked.

Why, when searching for hers, does she feel as if she’s stepping over the heads of dozens of dead people? Every face is a blur.

Eventually, finding her place on the second row, her mind as scrambled as the fried eggs left congealing on the stove earlier. Too upset to clear away the mound of dishes that had collected in the sink.

What was the point?

+++

The invigilator instructs them to turn over the paper.

Normally finding exams easy, especially when she’s prepared well, this time it’s different. This time Rosie feels like she’s drowning in words on a paper that make no sense. Twenty minutes in, and she still hasn’t dredged up an answer to any of the questions presented. The subjects she had revised haven’t come up. At least not in any recognisable form.

And she’d been banking on them.

Head buzzing like an insect about to get drawn into a bug zapper, so far, she’s only managed to come up with a doodle resembling a scary black dog!

Half an hour in, other than the scratching of pens and the odd suppressed cough, the room is quiet. Everyone else seems to be filling in the sheets. Rosie is convinced her life depends on doing well in the exams. She’s worked so hard to get here, and now she’s back to where she started.

There may be only one way to stop the screaming red!

+++

Until things crashed, Rosie had loved everything about university life. Every day was filled with a sense of wonder – people coming together from all walks of life, making it work. She loved the camaraderie, the intoxicating smell of academia. Mostly she loved no longer having to act as if she wasn’t bright. As if a light had been shone on a path that up to then had been littered by weeds.

Then she fell in love. Agonisingly so.

For a while, existing on another plane, she forgot the promises she’d made to herself. Instead, she floated in a haze. Everything smelt better.

+++

Going back to her family after university was never an option for Rosie. Friends were headed in different directions. Some were returning to their roots, some drawn to the buzz of the city, others going into teaching, law, or social work. Then there was Chloe, the one she least liked, coasting her way to a higher degree, a bright academic future assured. Her life mapped out in a way Rosie’s had never been.

+++

Somehow, Rosie makes it to the end of the exam without bolting. Gradually the black dot recedes, turns into answers, though she’s no idea what she’s actually written.

When the exam finishes, she makes it out the room and collapses like a rag doll onto the steps of the university square. Nearby, a group of Chinese students are soaking up the sun.

Hey there, Rosie.” A guy from one of the tutorials joins her. They had briefly dated but it had come to nothing. Feeling smothered, she’d been the one to end it.

“Oh! Hey Joe.”

“Whatever’s the matter? You seem upset.”

“I think I’ve messed up big time with that paper.”

Joe tentatively puts his arm around her shoulders. “Don’t go upsetting yourself. You’ve probably done better than you think.”

“I don’t know how I’m going to get through all this!”

“You look done in! If you’re that worried, maybe you could try the Health Centre for help. I’m sorry, I really have to go but call me.”

+++

Set some distance away from the main colleges, the health centre with its dappled lake and trees seems like something out of a fairytale than a real place.

An hour later, in a shaded room, Rosie feeds a version of the truth to Alice, a counsellor she’s seen a few times before. In those sessions, she’d concealed the extent of childhood abuse, naively believing university would block out the past.

It was always going to cost too much to reveal the truth about herself.

Or him.

Alice hands Rosie a white tissue from a cardboard box. She listens cautiously, not wanting to push a fragile student.

“I don’t think I can face doing the rest of the exams. Not the way I’m feeling.”

“Well, the good news is we can help.”

Rosie covers her face. “I’ve messed up. Everyone else seems to be getting on ok.”

“You’d be surprised! A lot of people struggle with exam pressure. But it’s more than that in your case, isn’t it, Rosie?”

“I’m sorry. I just can’t go into…all that!”

She hadn’t intended to get in deep with anyone, let alone a lecturer. If she tells, it might ruin his career.

Closing her eyes, she pictures their first time together. The deepening of the eyes, a melding of bodies, his mouth on hers. Snatched moments mostly in his room. One time at a hotel.

But then he said she was too vulnerable; he really shouldn’t be…

Red anger shot through.

She turns back to the counsellor.

“I’m sorry. I just need to get through this.”

“You’ve still got a few days before your next exam, but if you want, you can sit the rest of the exams here in the counselling centre. There are rooms upstairs. You’ll just need to get your belongings, and then you can stay over. It’s a more informal environment, and there’ll be someone here to make sure everything is above board.”

It sounds like an answer to her problem.

+++

But is it enough? As the next exam approaches, she needs something more tangible. Something to make up for all the pain and rejection.

If she is to salvage any of this and stand a chance of the dreamed-of academic career, she has to know what’s on the other exam papers! Surely a senior lecturer like him will know or be able to find out.

Otherwise, she might be forced to act in ways beneath her.

+++

Leaving the health centre after the final exam, Rosie feels more relieved than elated. Any remaining illusions have dropped away like scales discarded on dry land.

In the end, enough of the questions had come up for her to be likely to get a decent result, but not an exceptional one. It was difficult to tell how much a part he’d played in it, if any. It almost certainly wouldn’t be enough for what she wanted.

Either way, needing a drink, she winds her way to the nearest bar. It’s likely to be quiet now most of the students have gone.

In the doorway, Rosie’s heart lurches. HE’S IN THERE! Catching a side view of the familiar jacket with the elbow patches he often wore to lectures, she remembers how she used to tease him about his sartorial tastes. Suddenly, she wants to throw herself at his feet, beg him for help, tell him she hadn’t meant it to be like this! If they can only talk properly, she can explain. Maybe with the pressure off, there might be a chance for them to get close again…

But then, she sees he’s not alone. He’s leaning into a young woman, hand resting upon a shapely knee. Chloe’s knee. Two mouths laughing, absorbed in some private joke.

Maybe she’s the biggest joke of all here!

+++

During the last days of the summer term, with most of the students drifting off or gone, the place feels soulless. Rosie, however, has paid another week’s rent for a room on one of the campus colleges while she considers her next move.

In the moonlight, shadows fall upon vacant walkways. Rosie plucks one of the roses from the tubs, crushing it in her hand. All that’s left are remnants of herself, the rest having been flushed down some unforgiving pan. So, he was merely placating her, keeping her off his back: she sees it all so clearly now. Not only had he not given her the answers to the exams, he’d betrayed her by sleeping with her friend.

Unable to endure it any longer, she knew he’d have to pay!

Descending the steps leading to his department, her eyes travel to the glow flickering in one of the upstairs rooms. Flooded by another kind of red, she slips unnoticed into the building, her tread light upon the oh so familiar stairs. She moves stealthily down a corridor like a cat. Until stopping outside a door, turns the handle, and finds it locked.

It’s unlike him to lock it! Unless he’s in there with her!

She tries the door again, pounding her desperation and calling out. “It’s Rosie. Let me in. I need to see you,” but is met only by a thick silence.

Eventually, she starts to feel foolish standing there with her ear pressed to the door. There’s no muffled giggling or anything to indicate anyone being on the other side. Maybe he simply forgot to turn the light off and isn’t there at all! But why lock the door? Puzzled, she lingers a while, tries the handle one last time, then finally gives up and leaves.

Sometime later the door opens and a young man peers out. Swamped by a dark hoodie, he breathes in the faintly lingering scent that for him is a hallmark. Rose blended with the earthy hint of patchouli, mysterious and intoxicating. The meticulous sort, he’s wiped away any prints. Now, turning off the light, he leaves the door closed but unlocked. Padding along the corridor, he carries a nondescript rucksack which he plans to discard shortly. Beneath the hood, he wears a look of quiet triumph. It’s only a matter of time before he finds his way to Rosie’s room. What will he tell her? That it takes the crushing of hundreds of rose petals to make the best scent.

But she already knows that.