War of A Rose

War of a Rose • Chapter 9

Rosaelia

The days following my torture seemed to mix together. Nights had bled into mornings before I could fall asleep, and the day would pass so quickly that I never noticed I hadn't eaten. I sat perched on the window seat in my bedroom. I kept my eyes zoned out at the outside world, trying to focus on anything else but my own thoughts. My brain was in overdrive, trying to process what had happened. What had happened to me?

After they were done brutalizing my body, I laid on the cold floor of my Father's office until he sent a maid to clean the mess up. To clean me up. Alma could hardly conceal her cries as she pulled me from the floor. She wrapped me in a white towel, and I can still remember how her eyes changed when my blood turned the fabric red. I think that was when she understood how cruel my father truly was. She hurried me up to my bathroom, where I spent two hours in the bath as she cleaned me up. The water ran red with blood so much blood. I couldn't tell where it all was coming from. It was too much blood.

Alma had to drain the tub and fill it again. I remember the pain radiating off my body as I sank deeper into the bathtub. How it burned in between my legs. How empty it felt inside where my soul should have been. I yearned for the thing I had lost. For the thing that had been stolen from me.

Alma tried her best to hold back her whimpers, but when she washed my skin, she let loose a terrible cry. Bruises bigger than softballs coated my back and stomach. Minor cuts are scattered around my skin. Alma had raised me alongside my mother since I was a baby. At times she was more than a nanny than a maid. It was only natural for her to feel such pain. I knew she would never judge me. Never blame me. Still, it angered me that I had to be exposed to her this way. It humiliated me.

I did not want anyone to see me like this. To know what had happened to me. I didn't want anyone to think less of me. They would only see how worthless I really am. I could never find my place in this world if everyone had learned how I let myself be abused horribly. If they knew I didn't even try and fight back.

I've killed men before. I should have killed those men. I just felt so weak at that moment, and I feel so weak now. It was almost like I did not know who I was anymore. I could barely stand to look at my reflection in the mirror. There was no way I could face myself after I had just given up. After I had refused to fight. I laid there as those monsters violated my body. I lay there, letting them have their fun. I just laid there when I have killed men before. Why didn't I kill them?

Luckily Alma had only cried. She never spoke or asked what had happened. I knew she wanted to, but every time she would look at me, it was like she knew how ashamed I had been feeling. She didn't push, and it only made me love her more. My mother has barely seen me these past two weeks. I knew she wouldn't be able to handle it if she learned what had been done to her daughter. She only saw me twice since my assault, and she had only seen the bruises on my face. Not the ones that coated my entire body. Like Alma, I can still picture her eyes as she took in my battered face. My swollen and purple eyes. The busted skin of my bottom lip.

She cried out like never before, and she yelled for my father, unknowing that her husband was to blame for my broken appearance. It was only when he did not aid her cries she realized that he had something to do with what had happened to her. And that look in her eyes when she realized that there was absolutely nothing she could do. Absolute disgust and despair. Knowing that her husband was to blame and knowing she could die for speaking up. That look will be forever etched into my mind.

Gabriele hadn't seen me at all, but he had given all of his efforts to do so. He called, banged on my door, texted, and even stood outside of my window. He gave everything to find out what had happened to me after he left, but I couldn't let him see me like this. If he had, I knew he would never forgive himself. My cousin would blame himself for leaving me that night even though I was not his responsibility.