The Glass

She was staring at the glass. It was a beautiful glass. The bowl, long and slim, captured the dim light that was dancing on the candle's wick. The delicate stem slid down and flared into an intricate base, on which dainty little roses were reflecting light, almost making them shine. The flowers were painted on with the steady hand of the most talented artist she had ever known. Delicate strokes of a tiny paintbrush adorned the perfect glass with white. She reached for the flute. A steady hand of a woman always in control, the carefully manicured deep red of her fingernails a stark contrast to the pale-gold of the champagne.

How could she do that to her? Rose's words reverberated in her head. "It's just... Not working out for me anymore," she uttered in her soft, sweet voice. She remembered her tone, mild as always; her gestures placated, as if she wanted to touch her, provide comfort, but stopped herself. It was no longer her right, after all. Rose, her Rose, sweet and frail. Weak Rose. Soft, spineless Rose. How could she do that? Where did she go? To her father? The man who disparaged her choices all throughout her childhood? Unsupportive, unimaginative, unwilling to believe in her? A good for nothing drunk? Blind to his own daughter's potential? Throwing away her talent, trying to squash her down? Her breathing grew laboured, teeth clenching with an unpleasant squeak. Her mother? Her passive, weak mother? Never willing to stand up for herself, for her? Her fists clenched. Or her one friend, struggling through life, never quite managing to make ends meet? She felt the pain of her nails digging into her skin, the pressure on her teeth. She took a deep breath. No, Rose had nowhere to go, no one to turn to. No one but her. She'll be back.

She took a sip of her champagne. She let herself enjoy the taste. The soft fizz of the wine made its way along her tongue, delivering the freshness of apples, a citrus flavour and subtle sweetness along with it. Rose always preferred sweet wine. She had an untouched bottle stored just for her. It will wait for her. After all, she would be back soon.

She allowed herself to relax for the first time that day. Her stiff muscles gradually let go of the tension she was feeling since that conversation. Her eyes closed, a small smile pulled at her lips. How naive her Rose has been to think she could leave. She could not. What life would Rose have left without her?

Her smile curved wider, eyes becoming softer, content, as she remembers the time just after Rose had moved in. How she brushed Rose's long, dark hair. The hairbrush glided through them softly, light creating a fascinating spectacle with every stroke. She would braid her hair, gently brushing it away from her face, pinning it just as she liked it. Rose always liked to hide behind her fringe, hair almost hiding her eyes. She'd never allowed that. She laid Rose's soft features bare, her expressive, melancholic eyes no longer hidden. She sprayed her neck with perfume, the smell sweet, gentle, just like a branch of a blooming apple tree on a warm spring morning. So similar to Rose herself.

She opened her eyes and stood up, her glass firmly within her grasp. The sound of her heels was almost too loud in the empty house as she made her way to a painting. It was large, the frame thick and luxurious. It depicted a man, his eyes full of sorrow, brows furrowed in worry. He had a winding piece of red thread, snapped mercilessly. It stood out, bright and full of life, on the backdrop of the washed-out colouration of the man and the light blue walls surrounding him. Rose had painted this over a year ago. She couldn't help admiring it. Rose's attention to detail and meticulousness in her art always made her chest swell up with pride. She finished her champagne. She wondered what else her Rose was capable of, how close to perfection could she be pushed. She couldn't wait to see. She is going to see. Rose will be back soon, after all.

She made her way upstairs, echoes of her pleased humming trailing behind her through the spacious hallways. She opened the heavy door to their bedroom and stepped inside. The room still smelled of fresh flowers, of her Rose. Energized, she opened a secret drawer Rose hadn't known she knew about. As if she wouldn't have noticed. Silly Rose. She took out a book, thick and heavy with unfinished sketches and Rose's innermost thoughts. The empty flute still in one hand, she sat down on their plush, soft bed, almost sinking in the mattress, surrounded by far too many pillows. That's how Rose liked it.

She opened the diary, stroking the dark leather cover under her fingers. She looked over her favorite drawings. One was of her, created when they just started seeing each other. Rose has drawn her, elegant and poised, an admirable figure. She remembered the day as clear as day. They were walking in the park, the smell of freshly bloomed flowers and sun-warmed grass in the air. Shy little Rose asked her to sit on a bench under the apple tree, and so she did. Admiration of her Rose bloomed in her chest, hopeful anticipation of the future clear in her eyes. And so she has been immortalized, in bright blue pencil. She smiled softly at the memory.
The pages rustled quietly as she searched for the next one. Her happy gaze landed on a bright noon sun, surrounded by blue of the sky. Under it stretched a forest, a sea of bright greens, soft oranges and dots of red. It wasn't perfect, far from it. The lines were made distractedly, Rose's attention was half on her and half on the drawing at the time. Soft nostalgia made its presence known in her chest. It was the first sketch Rose made into a painting, as she persuaded her to. She asked Rose for more detail in the painting and she delivered. Still it hung in the dining room.
Later, she found a drawing of a cat. Its fur looked soft, almost as if she could reach into the page and have the animal purr under her hand. Its eyes stood out, blank, surrounded by the grey of the pencil. Rose had taken her advice to heart by then, her art polished, detailed, perfect. She exhaled in satisfaction.
Her first drawing in coal always struck her as odd. A fragile cocoon hanging on a thin branch. She could make out an outline of a butterfly struggling to free itself. It was a tiny thing.
She looked at her latest drawing, eyes lighting up with amusement. Rose always had a way of bringing out the beauty in the most disgusting of creatures. She smiled down at the spider, elegant and tranquil and drawn in coal, a confident mistress of the intricate web. She could imagine the spider was waiting for a delicate butterfly, still in patience and certainty.

She turned the page. Her steady hand tightened over the glass. Her eyes narrowed, breathing deep and forcibly steady. How dare she? How could she? Has she not done everything in her power to keep her happy? To provide her comfort and luxury? To spoil her, pamper her, delight her with gifts and attention? Has she not done enough?
The glass shattered in her hand with a crack. Sharp pain shot out from her hand, forcing her fists to clench tighter as tears welled in her eyes. Blood dripped over the soft, bright bedding. Over the floor. Over the forsaken diary. Shards of glass embedded in her skin.

On the page, now smeared with bright red blood, tiny pieces of glass catching the light, read, with flourish, in well-practiced cursive, "I just need to breathe, Ann."

Pain burning in her hand, glass snapping under her every step, she made her way downstairs. Blood followed her as she reached for her coat. She knew exactly where to go. Her Rose is going to be back, and soon.
"You'll come back to me, Rose," she muttered. Once again her gaze landed on the bright red thread on the painting. Her muscles were tense, back perfectly straight. She let out a deep breath. "You'll be back, my love." Her eyes were fixed on the red thread, vibrant and defiant against the pale hues. Broken, yet able to be mended. Sewn back into place. And it would be. Time and time again, until Rose learns. She would fix it, yet again, always. "Yes," she whispered, "you've always come back, haven't you?"