The Knight Of The Rose (47 page)

I suffer the agony along with him.

But, holding David’s locket in my fingers, I re alised that I di dn’t want to forget him. I felt

empty when I tried. He may have left this to make me suffer, but I felt more complete than since the

last time I was in his arms.

I nodded to myself. I
will
wear it. I’ll keep David close to my heart—alive in my thoughts.

Mike will know; he’ll know I still love David, but he’ll accept it—because he loves me.

I am Ara, and David is a part of me. He will always be a part of me. Without David, there

can be no Ara, and without Mike, there’d be no me either.

I am complete as long as I have the other two halves of myself.

I can never move on, not really. I can live for the rest of my life with Mike, and I will be his

wife, but a part of me will always belong to David.

As the fine inscription reads on the back of the locket, I belong to him. My heart belongs to

him. After my mum died, he brought me back from the darkness of a world so shattered and so

broken. I could no longer save myself, and it took the heart of a knight to pull me f rom the

wreckage.

I
will
wear his heart, and I will keep it against my own.

“Forever,” I told myself as I linked the chai n around my neck and let it fall against my

collarbones—back where it belonged.

Day passed and night descended again. Sometimes the monotony felt worse than the dark

hell I was imprisoned in for so long—or at least...not that far off. Repetitive was the right word.

“Made you soup,” Dad said, holding a bowl around the corner of my door.

I sat up and smoothed the bedcovers flat on top of me. “Thanks, Dad.”

The smell of onion and chicken stock followed hi m into my room, like a moist cloud. I took

shallower breaths through my nose, trying to st op the scent from getting in and making me puke.

“You didn’t eat your muffins.” Dad nodded to my bedside table—to the afternoon tea he’d brought

up a few hours ago.

I shrugged. “Wasn’t that hungry.”

He held back the serving of complaint s, but not the si de of bli nking a f ew extra times.

“Well, here. Eat this.”

“Um, thanks.” I took the bowl of soup, wrapping my fingers firmly around the warmth, then

looked up at Dad as he sat beside me.

“Ara, I—”

“When can I go back to school?” I asked quickly, making Dad swallow the question in his

tone.

“School?” His brows rose. “I uh—school, huh?”

I nodded, happy I’d averted another awkward ‘abduction’ question I had to pretend I

couldn’t answer.

“Well, uh—you’re not really well enough yet, honey.”

“When will I be, Dad? I’m tired of staying in bed all the time.”

He nodded, trying to convince me that he believed me, I think. “I thought you said you were

never going back to school.”

“Things change.” I looked at the soup.

“Well.” He scratched his head and let out a short breath. “When you feel boredom—then

you can go back.”

“Boredom?”

“Yeah. When you feel bored, it means you’re healed enough to resume normal life.”

Boredom? The teen facade climbed the ladder of restraint, but instead of scowling at him, I

smiled. I wish I felt boredom—boredom is normal. “Okay, Dad.”

“Okay.” He smiled warmly, patted my leg, then took my plate of afternoon tea and left—

without the stinky soup.

Night wore on, and I listened to

the familiar sound of di nner conversation going on

downstairs—without me. Mike’s booming laughter flowed up the stairs and poked me in the heart. I

wished I could laugh. I wished I could laugh with Mike. But he seemed to be avoiding me. I think.

Or maybe he was just trying to give me some space, I wasn’t sure, but he hovered at my door a

lot—hardly ever knocked or came in....just hovered. Unless I needed something. Care and help, but

no companionship. It just wasn’t like us to be so distant. Before the attack, there were never closed

doors between us, but now it seemed like even the windows were shut—and I was all alone on the

other side.

A screech of disapproval rose above the loud chatter of my family, and Vicki said, “Greg,

you can’t say that. It’s politically incorrect.”

Dad didn’t respond, but I pictured him covering his mouth with a fist, his face red with

humour, his shoulders shaking with laughter.

“But it’s true, Vicki,” Mi ke said, “It’s rude, yes, but...” I stopped listening. I didn’t want t o

hear what they were saying. I didn’t want to be a part of their conversation—nor did I want to sit

here wishing I was.

I clutched my secret locket and waited for the arrival of another tear-provoked sleep.

When the taps stopped running and the lights and doors were positioned in their nightly rest

stop, I snuggled down in my bed, closed my eyes and imagined David beside me.

“How are you feeling?” the appar ition asked, smiling at me; I could almost feel the solidit y

of his fingers as he trailed them along my hairline.

“Better now you’re here.”

He went to smile, then looked up when my door popped open; I quickl y tucked the l ocket

away, hiding a smile under my feigned sleep. It must be midnight.

Mike walked in and stood over me for a second. As us ual, I kept my eyes closed. I think

he’s afraid I might disappear while he’s sleepi ng. He always checks my window, too—forces it

down and locks it into place. Maybe he’s scared the attacker will come back—looking for me.

But he doesn’t have to worry—I check the window a few times before I go to bed myself. I

have to, even though walking takes a lot of effort, and I all but fall into bed after—I can’t ask them

to do it for me. I don’t want them to know I’m afraid. They
can’t
know that.

Mike lingered for longer than usual; he leaned down beside me in the dar kness and stroked

my hair—as always, then stopped, and everything went still. A soft tinker filled the silence between

us when he touched my neck and pulled the silver chain from under my shirt.

“Ara—” he sighed my name out, his warm, heavy breath brushing across my nose and lips.

But, he placed the locket gent ly back down on my chest, instead of ripping it away—like he

probably should have.

Well, I guess the secret’s out now. I suppose I’ll be getting grilled tomorrow.

“Oh, Mike—I didn’t realise you were in here,” my dad whispered into the darkness.

“Yeah, I like to check on her before I go to bed,” Mike said with a deep, husky whisper. The

warmth of his body disappeared.

“I’m worried about her, Mike.” The light I could feel filtering in from the hall disappeared. I

opened one eye to see my dad lean against my dresser.

Mike took a breath through his nose, and folded his arms. “I know.”

“I don’t think she’s okay, you know. She plays it tough—” Dad looked right at me; I closed

my eye again. “But I never even see her cry. Not once—surely something like this has got to leave a

girl feeling
something
?”

Mike went silent for a second. “She cries,” he stated after a deep sigh. “I know you don’t see

it, but that’s because she wants everyone to think she’s okay.”

“But she’s not okay. How do you know she cries? Does she talk to you?”

I opened my eyes a litt le; Mike shook his head. “But I hear her. At ni ght, when she thinks

everyone’s asleep. She cri es, Greg.” Mike looked at Dad. “A f ew times I’ve hovered by her door,

trying to decide if I should come in—but she smiles and plays it cool when I catch her.” There was

a pause. “No—I don’t think she’s okay, either. Come to think of it—she needs to talk to someone.”

“Maybe she’ll talk to Emily?” Dad suggested.

No, I won’t.

“I doubt it—just give her time,” Mike said.

I rolled over and stirred—deliberately—to get them and their gossip out of my room.

“I’ll try and talk to her tomorrow,” Mike concluded. “But don’t worry, she is still capable of

feeling.”

“I hope so,” Dad said. “Otherwise...” His pause lasted a little too long.

I tensed. Otherwise what?

“I know,” Mike said. “But she’s alive, Greg.”

“I’m starting to wonder if that’s all that counts.”

It’s not, Dad. I wish I
had
died. There was a point in the darkness when I wanted to come

back, but not to this. Not the nightmares I have for the way Jason touched me, the emptiness I feel

for the way David left me, and for the grief that hits me when I stand na ked in the shower—feeling

the exposure of my skin to the air—knowing I’m safe, but feeling so scared and so bare.

No one war ned me that bei ng awake again would be worse. No one told m e I’d ha ve

nightmares—falling, over and over again from that tree, waking up just before I hit the ground. I

can’t sleep in the dark, because wh en I open my eyes, i f I can’t see the outline of my room, I pani c

and fight the constri ction of my covers, never really sure I’m free from the eternal blackness. And

even though Mike comes running when I wake and scream, and he holds me and soothes my

demons away, I’ve become increasingly afraid to go to sleep.

I don’t know how much more I can take. And I’m not the only one who’s tired. I’ve watched

my Mike grow increasingly weat hered these last two weeks, and yet, he will not rest. He persists

with my care—like he’s trying to make up for lost time.

The light from their world intruded on my dayd ream of David for a litt le longer. Dad had

left the door open when he walked away, but I could feel Mike lingering in the doorway. He knew I

was awake. He wanted me to look at him so he could say “Sorry I woke you” and then lay with me.

But I didn’t want company. I just wanted to be alone—to go back to my daydream.

Mike closed the door, granting my secret wish, and I lifted the locket from my chest; this is

the only place I get to have David—this is the only place I will ever find a smile again.

The sunlight outside reflected off the icy roads and shone through the window with its early

morning glow. It felt like years since I’d seen the sun, since I’d looked up at the blue sky and found

the summer.

I wonder now, if I will ever love the summer again.

“Hi, gorgeous.” Mike glided into my room with breakfast. “You hungry?”

I shook my head; Mike lowered the plate of toast, dropping his smile with it. “Okay. I’ll take

it back down.”

“Thanks, Mike. But...” I sat up a littl e. “Don’t tell Vicki. She’s worried I’m not getting

enough nutrients.”

“Okay.” He paused and chewed the inside of his lip as he studied my half-dr ied tears.

“Ara?”

“Mm?”

“No more, baby.” He squatted beside me and placed the plate on the ground. “You gotta talk

to me.”

“I do talk to you.” I folded my arms and looked down. I was careless. I should’ve pretended

to be asleep again.

“No! You don’t—you haven’t even been able to look at me. You flinch when—” he dropped

his hand away from my face as I recoiled, “—when I touch you.”

“Well, what do you expect, Mike?”

“I get it. I do. But I don’t understand why you’re pushing me away. I’d never hurt you, Ara.”

“That’s not what I’m afraid of,” I said with a hint of detest.

“Well—” He dropped back on his heels a little. “What is it then?”

I stared at him through a film of tears, and as the words of truth rose to the surface, spilling

onto my cheeks at the same time as the tears, I spat them out, “I’m just so ashamed. I never wanted

you to find me that way.”

“What way? Ara, how do you
think
I found you?

“He—he,” I stammered, “he left me naked. He said he was going t o make sure that...when

you found me, you wouldn’t sleep for fifty years.”

Mike’s eyes widened; his hands shot out so fast that I squealed and ducked my head, but he

held me to his chest anyway and stroked my hair. “You never to ld me that. Why didn’t you tell me

that?” Sniffling, with my quivering shaking from the chest down, I shook my head. “I didn’t want

anyone
to know.”

“Well, did you tell the cops that?”

I shook my head again. “I haven’t told anyone—anything. I only told them the basics.”

“Then, you remember more than you say?” His tone was soft, not angry like I expected.

“Mm-hm.”

“Oh, baby. Why? Why would you do that? How can they catch this guy if they don’t know

the full story?”

“They’ll never catch him.” That much I’m sure of.

Mike ignored that comment and took a deep breath. “Do you want to know what I saw when

I found you—can you cope with this yet?”

“I need to know, Mike—it’s been eating me up.”

“Oh, Ara. You should’ve talked to me about this before now—I could’ve helped you.”

“I thought you wouldn’t wanna talk about it.”

“That’s just silly, baby.” Mike laid me back down on my pill ow and studied my face—

which I wanted to turn away from him. His hand fell into the curve of my neck, and he stroked my

cheek with his thumb.

The bruising from where Jason strangled me had faded, but it left a mental scar; with Mike’s

hand there, my heart hammered in my chest and I fought the urge to push him off.

“When I found you—” he looked deep into my eyes with his soulful, caramel gaze, “—your

hair was covering you; laying unnat urally over your chest, like it ’d been positioned that way. And