Red Red Rosie

Chapter Three

I get up early in the morning.

I always do.

Actually, I struggle to sleep at all, especially on those dark nights after a feed.

Nightmares plague my mind as I sleep, just as the dark thoughts do when I'm awake.

I cannot escape the guilt. All thoughts conscious, and not, choke my mind, squeezing out any small amount of peace I may find. Even as I look out at the stars above, I cannot help but curse the light they shine down from the night sky. They sit on their many thrones of judgement, each representing a poor, helpless soul that I have destroyed out of my deep fear of time.

I cannot escape the night, even when clouds hide the stars' condemning glare, the darkness amplifies my victims' accusing voices inside my head. The shadow of my past never ceases to hover in the corner of my eye. Its persistence and indeed my exhaustion make me long for the day that the night changes its mind and takes pity on me.

I, of course, know that I do not deserve its mercy, nor will I ever receive such a thing, but when the morning comes I am given a chance to forget the hardship of night. At dawn my wrecked soul can rest. The morning sun brings with its rays a pause to the night's judgement, and the hustle and bustle of day manages to distract me from my condemning thoughts.

So, this morning, to expel last nights' struggle, I decide to get ready for a brand new day. I get out of bed, make my way across my bedroom and sit down at my dressing table. This table once belonged to my mother. She had my father paint it white, and line its edges with gold. She then expertly painted roses on each of its drawers using greens, pinks and pale yellow. The roses surround delicate, yet sturdy, golden handles that reflect the morning light that shines through my bedroom window. I could never part with this table. I had it during my days in the orphanage and it came with me when it was time for me to move on.

I pick up my hairbrush that is lying, bristles up, in front of my vanity mirror, and run it through my golden hair. I count each movement I make as I stare into the mirror. Mother taught me to always do one hundred strokes on each section, it takes a while but always brings about the best results.

Once I count my very last stroke, I put down the brush and move onto doing my makeup. I look closer into the vanity, explore my young skin, gaze at my complexion and choose the colours that I think would bring me the confidence I need for the day. I sweep a subtle peach across my eyelids and dust a rose-pink on my cheeks. I only ever use a small amount of mascara and I never feel the need for foundation after a recent feed. I've also not bought lipstick for many years, the stolen years of young men always left my lips with a deep, crimson glow. The same shade of red that I found within the gold cylinder that the old woman gave me all those years ago.

I remember the very day that I used that lipstick for the first time.

I was approaching thirty and I began to notice lines deepening at the corner of my eyes, and across my forehead. It was when I saw a grey hair that made my heart drop to my stomach. In a panicked flurry I rummaged for my precious, golden cylinder. I popped the cap off, twisted the bottom and watched the crimson wax rise from its sheath.

I stared at it.

My thoughts began to spin in all sorts of directions.

Was I believing a mad woman?

If I was indeed putting my trust in madness didn't that make me also mad?

If it was truly an enchanted artefact that I held in my hand would it be unwise to partake in such a thing - I don't know what the risks may be. Who could I ask? The old woman was long gone.