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. . .
rose Jolicoeur threw her problems into the sea and the fish came out weeping.
locking herself away in a cheap hotel, too, was a futile attempt to forget him, for the rough, white sheets against her smooth skin cast her mind back to his hands. everywhere. not an inch of her young body remained untouched.
her life had an unlimited potential for happiness, insofar as it had not been torn apart by one man. he had torn apart her fifteen-year-old dress and drawn daggers deep inside her until she was a wailing banshee, for she thought she would be the one dying that night. her life was, however, forever taken from her.
her once fragile velvet heart was now coarse and deprived. it wilted away with each passing day until, soon enough, what remained of it was nothing more than a few crumbs left from her morning toast. she was a walking ghost of her former self. nothing but a misty, unclear shadow in her clothing. but her doe-eyes never conveyed anything of the sort - he would always tell her "i can never read you, bambi."
what an awful time it was when the lion kissed the deer. a surprise attack on the poor, innocent creature that, although did not kill her, left her damaged beyond repair. and it was a great shame.
you see, rose jolicoeur could not touch her nose with her tongue but she could recite william shakespeare's 'sonnet 18' in three different languages all by the age of twelve.
she could never plait her own hair but she did manage to beat the world record in her town for memorising the most digits in pi, at the age of fourteen.
and, even though she may never master the technique of whistling with her fingers, she danced the role of odette and odile in her ballet performance of tchaikovsky's 'swan lake' exquisitely. when the bouquet of roses were presented in her curtsey, everyone watching claimed that she faded into the delicate flowers. she was one with the roses.
no one ever told the roses how to bloom or grow, so why did everyone tell her she was maturing too fast?
ask him.
he would never admit it but he was the reason her childhood was so shortly lived. monsieur hans, the most respected ballet teacher in the industry, was also the lion in all of her nightmares. the hiss of his voice as it whispered the same thing over and over: "you love me, bambi. i will always be with you." his words would still ring through her head in her most vulnerable moments.
he could not have been further from the truth for she seethed him with all of what was left of her eroded soul. he who thought that he could rule over every living organism because he bathed in chateau latour, and dined with aristocrats. she could never love a man who forced her to fall out of love with love itself.
oh, how things would be so different if rose had listened to her mother on that morning before ballet class; she had a high temperature of 38 degrees, but refused to miss rehearsals. the room was silent when she entered, as all of her friends stood in an ordered line of tallest to smallest; she recalled his sunken eyes circling the young girls, lingering on their tight, pink leotards for a little too long.
when his gaze fell upon Rose, her spirit shuddered and her petals fell; one by one, he picked away at her, with no mercy in those dark, emotionless pits where his eyeballs should have been. there was only untamed hunger and greed, until the day she ran away. monsieur hans had promised rose opportunity, singing praises of how "you are too special for this town. france is greedy for not sharing you with the world." and she fell for it.
when it was announced that rose would be visiting london alone with him, the girls did not applaud or display any enthusiasm. they sunk their heads into the ground and wept silent tears for her, but she was given no warning. they watched her pack her belongings and board a ferry with a tyrant, unaware of his true intentions.
at fifteen years old, rose jolicoeur had her first kiss.
at fifteen years old rose jolicoeur saw her mother for the last time, hugged her for the last time; loved for the last time.
at nineteen, she has never returned back, never looked back; but, every so often, she can feel debussy in her fingertips at the sight of a piano. sometimes she even recites pi when the train is delayed. but ballet slippers and ruffled tutus had never been so ugly to her. it made rose cry that her greatest passion was now the most torturous of her memories. even her own body rejected it with vomit and tears and unsightly dreams.
the young girl inside of her, that was once head over heels for the idea of love, had melted away into a puddle of tears and worn-out lingerie. rose wished that her innocence had not been stripped from her at such a young age, but there was no getting it back; it still lay trembling and scared on an unforgiving hotel room bed.
