Even when he was crying about his father's abuse she would listen and calm him down, then she would top off the cake of compassion with a comical impression or joke. He was very grateful for this, now more than ever, when he really needed to release his inner angsts. He played with the dolls, and on the surface gave a performance that was worthy of an Oscar award winning actor.
But on the inside his stomach was constantly unsettled, and his heart jumped up and down, never quite reaching a relaxed pattern of breathing. He was at a loss as to whether he had actually seen Rose, or whether it was his mind's eye projecting his greatest fears into the world of reality. After all, he had been doing a lot of investigating into her, and her history, it was only natural his sub-conscious and conscious life would react to this.
Soon enough his mother shouted up for them to leave. He gave Emily a big hug and left. They sat in the car, Deirdra seemed in a much better mood from Declan's standpoint, but conversation still proved that she could not quite forget the issue of Rose, as it remained unsolved, and she so clearly needed closure. Closure, which hopefully the black chest would bring. He then suddenly became incredibly nervous, at the possible contents lying in wait for his meddlesome hands.
As soon as the rusty car screeched into the small space outside their home on the street, he opened the door and raced inside to his bedroom. It had started raining so that was yet another plausible excuse for his urgency.
He locked the door behind him and double checked that the lock was actually engaged, and when he was satisfied that it would not open without a great deal of force or his allowing someone in, he turned to his bed. He laid the bag down onto the quilt, zipped it open and withdrew the chest.
A clutter of emotions awoke within him, some had been dormant for a significantly long time, others were no stranger to him. Excitement and a sense of achievement had been very dormant, rarely making an appearance, but the all too common fears and consternations woke from their very brief slumber. His hand was trembling as he opened up the chest, time seemed to freeze at that instance. Everything in the room seemed to humanize and become drawn to the mystery surrounding this box. The light bulb seemed to glow with curiosity, the desk seemed to lean with inquiring, the carpet seemed to ruffle with inspection and the walls seemed to close in with questioning. He had just thought of something that stabbed his stomach with a throb of regret, he didn't check that this was what he actually wanted, diaries, it could be a bunch of useless crap! He worried. It could be anything!
But he held out for hope and envisioned seeing something that would help his search somehow.
The lid was gently and gradually opened by his jittery hands, and his eyes seemed to expand in size as his tongue hung limp out of his mouth. He had waited hours for this, to find out what was hidden in this box, that Elizabeth clearly went to a great deal of effort to hide. He may have in fact stolen money! It may be a small safe! Oh god! He began to panic. But light soon brought to life the objects in the chest, and it definitely wasn't money.
Photos, and judging by his research at the library, they were photos of Rose, some as a child, then some as an adult, then some as an old lady. He rifled through the pictures, each one was in remarkable condition, to say how old they must be, especially the ones of her as a child in black and white. There must have been over a hundred photos in this small black reserve. Until the gold at the end of the rainbow appeared, a few tiny bindings: diaries. Or so Declan hoped. But when he opened the first one, feeling its dusty texture and airy lack of weight, he found that one at least, was a diary.
The date informed him she must have only been around six years old at the time of the diary entries. He gently bent the book and let the pages fly into a flurry, and a blur of hand written words fluttered in his view. He then picked up each one, and organised them by their date. This took him a few minutes, but he had chronologically ordered each diary from the age of six, all the way through to eleven. He could have sworn the girl was eleven when she was found by the police after her father's death. Book by book, the oldest to the most recent, if you could even call anything from that decade 'recent', he read the surprisingly neat writing of a little girl. He had been driven to tears after the first few pages of the first diary. This was too real, they did not have a nice quality of life in that time, the worry of the prejudice was alive, before the holocaust began to happen, even children were vaguely aware something was coming, it was not pleasant. She details of her confusion at such a young age, the death of her mother, but a paragraph that stopped Declan in his tracks was the exploitation of her father's abuse. It was not only the same abuse as Declan himself suffered, but sexual abuse.
Declan was young, but he was not foolish. He was unfortunately aware of this due to the media. Children at school used the word 'Paedophile' in such a cavalier manner, but he actually knew what it meant. The perversion of an adult who sexually interacts with a minor: anyone under the age of eighteen. He was willing to bet that if his friends or fellow classmates knew its actual meaning, they wouldn't shout it so frequently. Such strong words being written by a young girl was heart-breaking.
He could feel the emotion, the suffering, every meaning of the word pain being splashed onto the pages with ink. From the age of six her father had sexually and physically corrupted her, she wrote of this, and how she did not understand. At the angelic age she wrote of how he would touch and 'do things' to her, things that hurt, things that she thought grown-ups did to each other, things that befuddled her. But Declan knew, by very graphic descriptions, what these things were. It was like reading a life story of a rape victim. Then a thought occurred to him, Elizabeth must have read these. All of these. She must know what her grandfather did to her mother, the anguish endured by Rose. No wonder she never spoke of Rose, Emily had said that the doll belonged to her grandmother and had been handed down through the years to her, but that her mother was very short when it came to talking about Rose, Emily's grandmother. Now Declan finally understood why.
He continued on the express journey of misfortune, the detailing of her understanding developing, as her body comes to the ultimate conception that she is being molested by her own father. Throughout this ordeal Rose never told a soul, not a single person, she held it in. Which would bring the most stone-hearted man to tears, a young girl having to hold any secret in. But given that the secret was so agonizing to her mentality, that would make any human being capable of the smallest sliver of emotion, weep eternally. Declan began to feel cursed for knowing this, he wished he could take a gigantic leap back in time and have never had taken Rose. He cursed the day. He wished he'd never been haunted by the doll, never come to this day, in this room, with the journals of disastrous torture. These were not the diaries of a young girl, scribbling about schoolgirl crushes and such. Along with dramas that seem bigger than the universe but when they grow older would look back and laugh at the melodramatic rantings. These were the deteriorating of her soul, of her livelihood, her numbness and grief. How she found the will to live and carry on with life, was far from Declan's mental reach. His father beating him was one thing, but to have his father harm him in that specific way would destroy him. Destroy his zest for life, his bravery, his passions, and his dreams; every part of him, as he knew it, would be vanquished.
He had somehow come to the sixth diary, by which point he was familiar with Rose's style of writing in terms of how she wrote physically, to how she spoke of events and the slang and terminology she used. Which made him pause when, towards the end of the last diary, after a few blank pages, the penmanship transformed, it was completely different. The writing was messier, and the content had a far less impressive execution in its list of vocabulary, and there were many spelling mistakes. The last two pages were clearly written by someone else. Or after she experienced a near death trauma and then lost her father, this could very possibly have shook her mind free of intellectual capabilities and a neat handwriting flare. Or maybe her motivation to write about her, like her vit
ality, simply ceased. The particular pages detail after the near miss with the grim reaper, and the loss of her father. But she doesn't sound upset or sad in the slightest at this passing. Which Declan felt was justified, but to some extent, at such a ripe age, would you not mourn a little? Some parts of these bindings were very revealing, and mortifying, but these last two pages were baffling to him. It was as if the diary was finished by some random person, but then again she had experienced incredible anguish at the age of eleven, so there was no predicting in how this would transform a young girl, and the abundance of effects that could wreak havoc on her mentality.
He lay there partially satisfied, and partly frustrated, craving more, so close to the finish line, yet still a few steps away until he could finish the race. Sat staring into thin air, totally absorbed into the journey that Rose had just taken him on. He shouldn't have done it, he was far too young to have read this. Sneaking horror books and horror films into his room was one thing, that was fiction, but this was far worse, this really happened. Horror fiction, whether it be in print or on screen would at worst cause a few scary nightmares. But this non-fiction, this real life catalogue of violations, corruptions, and martyrdom would remain a part of him for the rest of his life. It was as if he had experienced first-hand this affliction, her explanations were so vivid, it was hard to read and remain unmoved and impartial. He was now ready to go to sleep, or at least try. He doubted he would reach his slumber for a few hours yet, but he would try, staying awake would invite more disturbing, haunting images in his mind. These photographs his grey matter had sketched were now stored in his eternal memory folder, one that could not be erased or sent to the junk part of his brain, it would forever remain in his own hard-drive. If he was lucky the freshness of the pictures would fade with time, but right now, they were clear as a newly polished sheet of glass in his head, a sheet that exposed the demons glued to the internal walls of his skull. Just as he went to put the last diary back in the chest he noticed a small couple of words written on the last page at the very back.
'R.I.P Rose'.
Now this, along with many other aspects of the whole charade, did not make any sense. Unless Elizabeth had written it? But why would she? Who else would have wrote it? Rose wouldn't write that about herself at that age, and it was clear by the name written on the front of each pad whose diary it was, so why write this on the back page? Did she feel her life was over? Did she feel she had lost a huge part of her identity? That was possibly the most heartbreaking of all recent revelations he had read. Damn it! Why did he have to notice that just before going to bed? Now he would lay wide awake in bed for hours, piecing together the various puzzles these pages of torture have illustrated. He looked at the clock and read '11:02'.
Jesus! And his bedroom light was on, his father would soon be up to- A hard thudding sounded on Declan's door.
Chapter 9
“What the fuck are you still doing up you little shit,” muttered his vile father.
To call him a father, Declan felt, was a wrong title. It takes more than donating sperm to be a dad.
Which was all David had done to earn the title. He came back to earth from his odd thoughts and was sent reeling into panic.
“Open up you little shit,” he spat, which sounded like it came through clenched teeth.
Declan knew by him speaking quietly, but so full of rage, his mother must be sleeping with the door open and he was afraid she may wake up. He didn't want her to interfere. Maybe he should pretend that he fell asleep with the light on? Yes, I will act as though-
Declan then knocked one of the diaries onto the floor, which wasn't loud, but it was loud enough.
“Hey, fucking open up before I break this door down,” David said, getting more full of anger with each word that was spoken through his antagonised jaw.
“I w.....was r-r-r-r-...reading” Declan stuttered as he threw the books back in the chest, closed it and flung it under the bed, skidding across the wood and thudding against the wall.
“I don't fucking care, open this door now,” he commanded.
Declan reached up to a book on his shelf and grabbed it, opening it and putting his finger half way through it. This would hopefully convince his dad that he had in fact been reading, he probably wouldn't even notice that Declan had been reading, but not a typical horror fiction, instead a detestable depiction of a child's distress. He unlocked the door and moved out of the way as it flew open.
Then through the black hallway appeared his father. Eyes so furious they were almost red, and teeth clenched so tight his jaw became predominant on his face, bones jolting underneath scruffy looking stubble. An amber face appeared from the darkness, a redness that insinuated an unquenchable fury and desire to inflict pain onto Declan.
Declan backed away and began whispering, “Please don't dad, please, I am sorry.”
Declan was shocked when his father turned to leave. His pleading had never worked before, why had it now? Had he finally grown a conscience? Become weaker? Or is he too drunk? Does he need to vomit? Grab another beer? But then the door began to close and David was still in his bedroom. He was closing the door to avoid waking up his wife. Then the lock was activated.
Declan saw his life flash before his eyes, for some reason, this time, he knew this was it. He had been too lucky, and survived too much, this time he would die at the hands of his father. His heart was beating so incredibly fast, it was one constant beep, like the flat-line of a heart rate monitor signalling death, which he suspected was his fate. But this was proof of a very excitable state of living, so close to death yet still in the land of the living, and not in the heavens above. David began to close the distance between the two, with each step escalating in his eagerness to attack his son.
His hands screwed up in fists, with the knuckles glowing white, and his head was tilted down with his eyes looking up, which made him look truly evil. Possessed by a spirit, the devil himself had taken control of his father. But Declan knew better, this was his father. Usually daddy-not-so-dearest, began with a few punches, by which point Declan was on the floor, at the mercy of his kicks. But tonight, his father reached for Declan with both hands. What was he doing? Then it became all too clear when David's hands were wrapped around his throat squeezing the life out of him. David wasn't playing around this time, he was going straight for the kill, literally. His throat was breaking, and his airways were shrinking. Breathing was nearby impossible. All Declan could do was attempt to remove the hands with his own, but as a child, against a fully grown man, this was practically impossible. Declan's sight blurred and began to turn red, like an image saturated only with a dark crimson colour. His pulse began to grow loud in volume, but slow in regularity. Death was coming, his father didn't just want to beat him this time, he wanted to end him, terminate his short life on earth, and send him falling to his premature grave.
There was no sign of remorse or guilt in his eyes, not even a fraction of a percent, nothing. This person, this horrible being, was going to murder his only son. Just as he felt the carbon dioxide taking effect, his vision was no longer tinted red, it glowed white. This made David appear innocent, which freaked out Declan more than he knew possible. As if Declan was the guilty party and David was justifiable in his actions. Everything turned white, various shades of it, but still, everything was white. The bed was stained a light cream, the floor was painted in an ivory, and his father was set alight with a pure undiluted white, his whole body almost invisible, against the room's newly adapted colour. Then the room froze.
The curtains no longer swayed, his father no longer shook with detestation, everything became almost two dimensional, and remained oddly still. He released himself from David's grip, and fell to the floor in a heap. Lungs on fire, gasping for air. What is going on? He wondered. Was he dead? Was this heaven? He could not explain this pale, Arctic version of the world he had been raised in. Out of his eye he noticed something that was in colour, not cloaked by paleness. Rose, on his bed, stari
ng into his eyes. He was now much more scared than at the hands of his loathsome daddy, he was now petrified. Especially when she went from standing on the bed, to taking steps toward him.
Each step made the quilt crumple, but one more thing that remained a mystery, was that every step she took, she brought with her, colour. Each tread of quilt turned into colour for a second, as if she had coloured mud on her tiny porcelain shoes, and brought back colour to whatever she touched or passed by. But this lease of blues and greens and the entire rainbow's spectrum, was short lived, and after a few seconds or so, something kidnapped the colour, and planted a pearl tint in its place. After this peculiarity she was soon at the end of the bed. But then an even stranger and more unnerving thing happened, she raised her arm, pointing it at Declan. The way by which she did it Declan felt she was either accusing him of something, or incriminating him. Either way he didn't like it.
He felt like screaming, crying, or attempting to run, anything to help, but he couldn't. He himself, like everything in the room apart from Rose, was bound by a veiled force. But when Rose's arm was done moving it appeared to be showing her hand, then he could move again. As if life had been dropped back into his human carcass like coffee into a mug. He began hesitantly moving towards her, not sure why he was doing it, but unable to stay still. One moment he was motionless, and now he could do nothing but move towards the doll, against his will. But then he stopped, as she had done, and his arm moved towards hers. His hand reached Rose's and held it. She felt cold, and not like porcelain, but like flesh. Like the body of someone who had been dead long enough to get chilly, but not quite long enough to start rotting. He began to stare at her hand, and saw it turn from pottery, to flesh. The smooth pot began to mutate, right before his very eyes, into flesh. Pores grew, freckles marked the pink of her skin, and nails sprouted from the fingertips, half-moons rising within the nails. He looked up to her face, and his heart stopped when he saw she was now human, and no longer a doll.
Frightful Tales #1: Rose's Thorn Page 8