Stealing Roses

Chapter 7

The next day, Alex seemed different. Desperate.

“Why are you so sad?” He asked. I stared back at him incredulously. “Is it the smell?” The acrid odour of the week old bile had burnt my nose and tongue for the past week. I had tried to avoid it, but there wasn’t anywhere else to go.

“Let me go.” I pleaded weakly. His expression grew stormy and his fingers twitched, as if he was going to strike out. He settled for sweeping some loose strands of hair from my face. I flinched away from his touch, but he didn’t seem to notice.

“You have such a pretty face, Rosie. No. Pretty isn’t the right word, it isn’t strong enough. Pulchritudinous. You know, it’s funny. It sounds like an insult, but it really isn’t.” He chuckled, like it was some new in-joke we shared. “Why do you let your hair cover you up?” He started to run his fingers across my cheeks and forehead. I closed my eyes, praying that he would just stop putting his hands on me. Thankfully he did, and his footsteps thundered up the stairs, slamming the door behind him. I pushed myself up tentatively, like a newborn deer. My legs were aching from lack of use and each step caused more pain. I climbed the stairs one by one, pushing forward. Just as I reached the door, it flew open and Alex stormed in. “You couldn’t wait to see me, huh?” He put his hands out and grabbed my shoulder, ‘helping’ me down the stairs. I collapsed in the corner, my hopes crushed. “This is for your hair.” He handed me a hairbrush. “Now you can feel as pretty as you look.” He grinned impishly, the smile lighting up his brown eyes. He pressed his lips to the lump on my hairline, making it sting. I had to sit on my hands so I wouldn’t lash out when he touched me. I didn’t want to let the vile thing defile me in any way. Let him touch me in any way. But I couldn’t get him angry at me; I didn’t want to end up like Evie, forgotten and missing. I waited until he closed the basement door and a car started up in the driveway. I could hear everything from down here, but no one could hear me. I practically threw myself up the stairs, stumbling to the door. When I was fifteen, I had a friend Dane who wanted to be a cop. He used to show us cool tricks he had picked up. One of them was picking a lock using a bobby pin and a tension wrench. I didn’t have a bobby pin, but I had something just as good. I pulled one of the stiff plastic bristles out from the brush and rolled it in my hands. Perfect. I ran the last few paces to the door, inserting the quill into the lock. Using Evie’s charm as my wrench, I twisted this way and that, waiting for the cylinders to turn. Click. There it was. I turned the handle slowly, pushing my way into the kitchen. My eyes roamed the blindingly bright room, searching for a weapon. I wouldn’t make the same mistake I did last time, running with nothing to defend myself with. All the knives had been strategically moved so all I had to work with was a dented, rusty frying pan. I swept it up, liking the feel of it between my hands. The front door creaked open and I widened my stance, ready for a fight. The boy stepped through the door, confusion marring his stony features.

“Mother?” His expression turned to a hate so intense I don’t think I’d seen anything like it before. “I killed you once, I can do it again.” He rammed into me, tearing the pan from my grip. He raised it above his head and I sank down on the floor. He was really going to kill me this time. I closed my eyes, waiting for the inevitable pain. A loud clang echoed through the house and I opened my eyes slowly, one at a time. He was standing over me, his hands empty and the pan on the end table a few feet behind him. “Rose?” He swept me up, whispering in my ear that he was sorry. I eyed the pan over his shoulder; it was too far for me to reach without him noticing. I was going to have to distract him enough so that he wouldn’t realise what he was doing.

“Yes, it’s me.” I looked up at him through my lashes when he set me down. “Were you going to hurt me?”

“No. Baby,” tears started to fall from those deathlike eyes. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” I said whatever I thought would please him. “No more games.” He smiled, closed his eyes and crushed his mouth to mine. I swallowed against the bile that was threatening to ruin my chance. I stretched one arm behind him and made a grab for the pan. I could just feel it against my fingertips, but I couldn’t get it. I pushed closer to him, making the boy take a step back. He hadn’t yet noticed what I was doing, so I got bolder pushing further back. Finally, I could feel the cool steel in my hands and I pulled my head back, at the same time bringing the pan down on the back of his head. He crumbled at my feet, unconscious. I burst through the front door, adrenaline pounding through my veins. Once I was out on the street, I ran. A few blocks down, there was a young couple walking a dog. When they saw me, the woman pulled out her phone, squeaking.

“Don’t come near us.” The man called. I know how I must have looked, covered in blood, running down the street like a mad woman.

“Please help me.” I threw myself into the final few metres before falling to their feet. “Call the police.” They looked at me with suspicion and fear before finally deciding to help me. The girl murmured into the phone, while the guy bent over to look at me.

“Help is coming.”