We Died Where Roses Grew

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We Died Where Roses Grew

I believe in the beauty of imperfection. When I first opened my eyes into this world you were there, holding your hands carefully cupped around my heart. In that moment I wondered why your brows knitted together, why your lips formed a straight line. Were not humans supposed to smile? Weren’t their mouths meant to form a circular shape that normally expressed happiness? Then what it was that darkened your own soul while creating the love, the woman that would suit you best? Was I too frail?

I do not believe I was fragile, the strength of my fingers surprised me as I sank my nails into the ground and gathered sand underneath. But you did not mind my childish gesture. You just stared at me in curiosity as if you were not completely convinced your craft was truly perfect. I understood. I knew the reason behind the disappointment in your eyes. I was designed to share the same eyes, the same beliefs as you, to never establish a life for myself that did not involve the presence of my creator.

As I stood there, in your arms, motionless like a rag doll I discovered the briefest of pains in my chest. The blood pumping organ began running, provoking a sharp sensation throughout my circulatory system. I asked you to explain to me the feelings I was experiencing and you just shook your head, burying your face in my hair. Your whole body tensed when you sighed. I was a failure. I suddenly felt roses layering around my entire body, caressing me with crimson smoothness while plunging their thorns in my skin, adhering to the insides of my flesh. It hurt. At least I think it did. The emotion in itself was not pleasant, I knew from the way I was trembling, from the water flowing from my eyes. You told me that crying is normal and I pushed you away, shouting my desperation.

I demanded that you change me, that you build me again from the scratch and you refused. You denied me the right of improving who I was because despite your efforts I would never be perfect. Having flaws was a natural trait of our nature and yet all I wanted was for you to see me stripped of errors, of mistakes which you considered you made while giving me a form.

A faint smile finally sneaked across your lips and your hand reached out but your fingers met nothing but air. I was gone, I knew better than you that perfection was not what you needed. Your genius required someone with a fiercer will, a stronger heart and a love that was born, not manufactured.

Stockholm

Ryan awoke from his slumber, a deep sleep that was not interrupted by a medley of dreams and nightmares circling about his cranium.  His toes twitched to confirm his existence as the rest of his body progressed to work together to move him from the bed.  He swung his legs off the bed while his arm held his body up for support.  His feet are submerged into a pool of vomit that sketches the outlines of his toes and heel.  A woman’s pale, scarred arm is protruding from underneath his bed.  He rises from his bed in hysteria, falling to the ground in the process.  He quickly backs up and sits against the opposite wall in his bedroom.  A woman he knows is lying dead underneath his bed.  A nearly empty bottle of antidepressants is near her body along with a key and a crumpled up piece of paper.  Ryan sneaks closer to her body and takes the paper, and then returns to his place on the wall.

The paper reads:

Dear Ryan,

I assume when you find this letter and read it in its entirety, you’ll remember who I am, or rather who I was.  Before you found this letter, I was nobody to you.  Ask anybody about the events that preceded this and I’d be considered the shy girl who never really said much and kept to herself.  No, you never really knew about me until that one night we shared.  Following the aftermath of that night, “shared” seemed like a poor choice of words.  This was all you, and I was a recipient, a victim, if you will.  You’d think after such an event, all of my hatred would be pushed upon you.  To be perfectly honest, I didn’t hate you.  In fact, I hated myself.

Why would a girl hate herself after being raped mercilessly by the man she loved?  Well, I was pretty defenseless as you could probably imagine.  If I had the strength to escape, believe me I would have done so.  However, I couldn’t.  You allowing me to leave after such brutality did not seem like much of an escape to me.  I was hurting ever since I left your bedroom that night.  I figured that I wouldn’t tell anybody because I was too embarrassed to report what had happened to me, as well as the fact that the man who claimed to have loved me would do such a thing.

Over the next several years, I resorted to a variety of methods to punish myself for not being strong enough.  It started off with hysterical crying, eventually evolving to sharp objects that could tear into my skin and draw blood.  I was put on an assortment of antidepressants to complement the therapy that I thought would help.  Scars developed on my arms and thighs to remind myself of why they were there.  When you finished raping me, you threw me against your desk until I fell to the floor.  While I lay there crying, you left the room for a couple of minutes.  I found the keys you used to unlock your house to let us in for the night.  I took one of the spare house keys off of the key-holder and kept it for myself.

I contemplated for the longest time about whether I should come back to hurt you like you hurt me.  The first night I came to your house you were already asleep.  I stood over you with a knife for a couple of minutes with a feeling of power rushing through me.  It was as if we had reversed roles and that I was in control.  I decided to not go through with it.  It was around this moment that I acknowledged how I always loved you before you did what you did to me.  I tried with every ounce of my being to convince myself that you were actually a good guy despite your actions.  I convinced myself that you actually still loved me.  I did nothing that night, but I did return.

Every once in a while, I would come back while you were sleeping and lie under your bed.  This was my attempt to pretend that we shared a bed together, even though I wasn’t in the bed with you.  It comforted me to think that you were nearby and that you nor anyone else would hurt me.  I came back many nights and did the same thing: I would come back to feel love again.

Eventually, as I started to visit at night more frequently, the power that this love had on me started to dwindle.  I needed you to know that I was there with you.  I could never figure out how to do that until now.  My body has been tortured ever since that one night and my soul was being poisoned as it lived inside.  It needed to escape for good so I could for once live in peace.

What lies before you is my dead, physical body that will spend the rest of its days on the surface.  Don’t worry though, I will still live on as my soul is still with you.  You now remember who I am, and I will live forever in your conscience.  I still love you, and I forgive you.

– Molly

Ryan puts the letter down in shock and observes that Molly’s eyes are open, looking straight at him.  He looks around the room to see a shadow move closer to him.  Each forward movement of the shadow caused him to feel a chill, his breath eventually being exposed in the air.  She would be with him forever.