The Knight Of The Rose

by A. M. Hudson

played like a black and white re-run; a wedding; David by an alter at the end of a dim-lit and

  infinitely long aisle. The satin train of my fitted dress trailed out behind me, and the toes of sparkling

  ruby slippers showed with each slow step.

  In my hands, I gripped the white bouquet with the single red rose in the centre; its crimson

  petals and my ruby slippers the only colour in the dream.

  Then, after an eternity counting my steps, I finally reached David’s side, but he was different;

  taller and more solid. I smiled as he took my hand, but though I knew who he was, I couldn’ t see his

  face; it stayed shadowed by the darkness of the dream.

  A bell tolled in the distance, and my lips touched those of the man I was destined to spend the

  rest of my life with.

  As I held the bouquet out from my body, the red rose fell from the centre, hitting the floor as

  my lips pulled away from t he warmth of the kiss, and I smiled up at my husband, then whi spered, I

  will love you for the rest of my life, Mike.

  Outside my mind, David’s cool touch suddenly broke away before I slipped back into the

  depth of my dream, seeing only a blue sky, my arms soaring out beside me, and feeling the cool

  breeze as I let myself fall backward from the highest peak of the bell tower—free, blindly peaceful—

  eternally falling toward the darkness of mortality.

  “David.” My whispered cry turned to an echo as the ground rose up under me.

  Gasping, I jolted from my dream, covered in tears and sweat.

  David?

  I looked behind me, under me, beside me—he was gone.

  No. Oh, God, he saw it—the whole thing. I covered my mouth with both hands and clos ed

  my eyes tight as I remembered the dream. “What have I done?”

  The clock in the hall ticked loudly, each second timing the beat of my heart and bringing the

  rise of realisation a little closer to the surface; Fate decided.

  Mortality.

  Death.

  Life.

  Mike.

  But that doesn’t mean I agree.

  Exhaustion made me flop back down on my pillow, and as my hand fell besi de my face,

  something cool and smooth touched my fingertips. A rose?

  “Morning, sleeping beauty.” Mike leaned against the doorframe with a tray in his hands.

  Sound suddenly came rushing back to my ears as my heart jumped to a start. “Morning? How

  long was I out for?”

  “All night.” He shrugged and walked into my room. “You cried for a l ong time at first, then

  you went quiet. I came to check on you, but you were asleep.” He set the tray down on the bed

  beside my legs, bringing the smell of toast in behind him. “Still your favourite flower?” He nodded

  toward the rose.

  “You left this?” I picked it up, being careful of the thorns on the stem.

  “Who else?”

  “Well, thank you.” I sniffed the sweet, soft scent of the rose, fadi ng as the autumn destroyed

  everything that was once beautiful in the summer. “You have no idea what this means to me.” It was

  so appropriate I couldn’t help but smile; a white rose from a completely white bouquet.

  “Are you okay?” Mike sat beside me, moving the tray onto my lap.

  “Not really. I just can’t bel ieve it, Mike. All this time, I thought I was wrong. I thought I

  misread everything between us.” I put the rose down. “I need to know—is this how you really feel,

  or is it guilt?”

  Mike grinned and looked down, rubbing the back of his neck. “Will it matter? You love

  David. I heard you talking in your sleep.”

  “Really?” Oh, the humiliation. Is there no privacy in this world?

  “Okay. I’m just gonna throw it out there and you can do with it what you want.” He turned

  his body to face me, then took both of my hands. “I am in love with you, Ara-Rose. You were never

  wrong about that. You never misread anything, okay? I love you.” He squeezed my hands on each of

  his end words. “I’m a complete moron, and I’m eternally sorry for that. But I loved you before your

  mum died, so I’m pretty damn sure it’s not guilt, baby.”

  “I...I can’t respond yet, Mike. I need to think.”

  “I know.” He nodded. “So, for now, I’ve arranged with your dad for you to have a few days

  off school—give you some time to clear your head.” He winked at me and smiled, but it faded

  quickly, leaving the serious Mike behind again. “Your dad loves you, you

  know. He was worri ed

  about you last night. I told him everything.”

  “You what!” I jolt ed forward, nearly sending the breakfast tray flyi ng. “Mike, how could

  you?”

  “Ara.” He pulled my hand away from my mouth. “I know you didn’t want him to know what

  happened the night your mum died, but he’s your dad and he loves you—no matter what,”

  I shook my head. “Not now he knows she died because of me, I—”

  “Ara. Don’t say that.” Mike, with eyes of worry, pulled me in for a short hug and squeezed

  me. “I’m the loser that turned you down. I’m the one to blame. Not you.”

  I composed myself quickly and called on that strength I’d once had when I thought David and

  I would be together forever and everything would be okay. “No, Mike.” I gently shook my head and

  closed my eyes, tr ying to believe my next words. “It was no one’s fault. It just happened and, I

  guess—” I opened my eyes to Mike’s smile, “—I guess it’s natural to look for someone to blame, but

  neither of us intended that to happen. We should both stop blaming ourselves.”

  He stroked a strand of hair behind my ear. “Your dad was heartbroken when I told him you

  were carrying the blame. He hadn’t even gues sed it, you know. He’s been so worried about you, and

  when I told him you felt responsible for what happened to your mum, he was actually relived that

  that’s all it was. He doesn’t hate you, baby, he can’t hate you. He loves you too much. That’s why he

  let you have a few days off—to be with me.”

  “He likes you,” I noted begrudgingly.

  “He’s an excellent judge of character.” Mike grinned; I smiled back. I couldn’t resist it. He

  just had thi s way of smiling that made one feel as if they were a part of his crowd—l ike they

  belonged.

  “I can’t believe you told him about us. I yelled at him, you know—whe n he accused me of

  loving you.”

  “Is that such a bad accusation?” Mike asked, a little insulted.

  “It’s not true.” I smiled.

  “Ouch.” He lau ghed, then leaned over my body with his f ace right up close to mine . “So?

  What do you want to do today?”

  “Honestly?” I unfolded my arms. “I think I’d like to just sit around and watch movies.”

  “I thought you’d say that. But, I get to hold the popcorn.”

  “No way! You always do.”

  “I’ll fight you for it.” He tickled my ribs.

  “Stop it!” I giggled, wriggling about, trying to pull his hand away without knocking the tray.

  “Make me.” He dug his fingers into my ticklish spot—right at the base of my ribs.

  “Mike!” I squealed. “Stop it, or I’ll wet myself.”

  “Stopping.” He raised his hands above his head and sat back.

  “Ha!” I said, “—works every time.”

  Vicki heaped another pile of butter-scented potatoes onto Mike’s plate. “So, what did you

  kids get up to to
day?”

  “Movies,” I said with my mouth full.

  “Anything good?” Dad asked, sprinkling salt on his dinner; Vicki just sighed at him as she sat

  down in the soft light of our candlelit dinner.

  “Couple of oldies. Ara made me watch some blac k-and-white with a curly-haired kid in it,”

  Mike said.

  Dad looked at me. “What movie?”

  “Oh, um, Shirley Temple,” I said.

  “Ah, yes, good old Shirley.” Dad nodded and chewed his food thoughtfully.

  “I used to love Shirley,” Vicki said dreamily. “I grew up watching those movies.”

  Sam slid down in his s eat and r emarked under his breat h, “You gr ew up watching t he

  invention of the light globe.”

  “That’s enough, son,” Dad said sternly.

  “Why the long face, Sam?” Mike asked, passing th e peas to Vicki when she motioned for

  them.

  “I got a B on my English paper…”

  Big deal. At least you didn’t inadvertently tell your boyfriend y ou’re in love with another

  man.

  “What’s wrong with a B?” Mike asked.

  “Dad expects a B-plus-A-minus average,” I said and smiled at Dad.

  “It’s not that I expect that, Ara-Rose,” Dad said, “I just know you’re both capable of it. If you

  aren’t achieving those results, it means you’re not applying yourselves.”

  “But it isn’t my fault!” Sam dumped his elbow on the table and rested his brow against his

  fist. “Mr Roberts hates me, he’s always in my face about stuff I—”

  “Samuel. Teachers do not de grade papers based on their opinions of students,” Dad cut in.

  “You need to start accept ing responsibility for yo urself.” When he glared at Sam’s elbow, Sam

  quietly removed it from the table and rested it in his lap. “You got a B because you prioritised video

  games over homework.”

  “Video games are more value to me than English homework, Dad. How will knowing what a

  verb is or deciphering Shakespeare get me a job out in the ‘real world’?”

  “What do you want to do?” Mike asked, cutting off Dad’s large mouthful of Sam-serving air.

  “Video game design.” When Sam said it, he lowered his face and spoke into his chest.

  “Cool.” Mike nodded; Sam looked up.

  “Really? You think that’s cool?”

  Mike looked at Dad; Dad sighed and separated himself from the conver sation by pouring

  gravy.

  “Yeah. That’s a great business to get into—especially now with all the developments in

  graphics and, not to mention, you can actually make more money in the gaming industr y than the

  film industry.”

  “Dad doesn’t agree.” Sam’s eyes dropped their hopeful glimmer. “He s ays I need to be

  serious. That designing games isn’t gonna get me a stable income.”

  Mike just laughed. “It won’t—if you don’t have a good education. How many companies do

  you think will hire a kid who can’t even commit to homework.”

  Sam looked puzzled. “What difference will that make?”

  “Because it’s not just about what you learn at s chool. It’s also about proving you have t he

  ability to put your head down and do the work, especi ally if you care nothing for it. If you can’t do

  that, Sam, you don’t have the right to a job you love doing, and I can tell you—” Mike scoffed,

  “even in a job you love, there’ll be moments you hate.”

  Sam became smaller in his chair.

  “Point is, mate, you work hard through the crap so you can enjoy the other eighty percent

  that’s good. Not to mention, if you want to design games, you will need English—and math.” Mike

  winked at me. “Creativity, passion, and some mad computer skills won’t be enough if you want a

  stable income. You need that piece of paper they call a degree. That’s all there is to it. So, in that

  way, your dad’s right. But—” he held a finger up while he shovelled a spoonf ul of potato in and

  swallowed, “if you just do all the hard work while you have nothing else to worry about except being

  a kid, when you grow up and you want the job stability you care nothing for now, you won’t have to

  fight for it—it’ll be yours.”

  Sam’s eyes changed, narrowed with thought, then he stood up and dumped his napkin on his

  beef and gravy.

  “Sam, where are you going?” Vicki asked.

  “I just realised I di dn’t do my essay,” he call ed from the stai rway before we all heard his

  bedroom door close.

  Dad grinned and patted Mike on the shoulder.

  Then, the conversation went on without me, while I pushed t he food around on my plate. I

  just wanted to go upstairs and wait for David to come.

  Despite enjoying watching movies with Mike, I f ound myself checking the l ength of t he

  shadows outside his window for most of the day—just waiting for night to fall—the second night of

  my last two weeks with David.

  “You okay, baby?” Mike asked quietly, leaning closer.

  “Mm-hm.” I nodded, forcing a smile. “I’m just tired.”

  “Maybe you should get an early night.” Mike pushed my fringe off my face.

  Vicki held back a smile, watching us, then quickly looked at Dad.

  “You do look a little tired,” Mike added after a lengthy silence.

  I do? But I’m not even tired—it was just a lame reason to excuse myself early. “Well, I feel

  tired.” And now I’m wondering if “you look tired” is guy-speak for “you look hideously haggard, go

  see a beautician.”

  “Well, why don’t you h ead up now and take a shower.” He nodded toward the archway.

  “Doesn’t look like you’re getting any closer to consuming your dinner by transforming it into plate.”

  I looked down at my canvas of mash and gravy. “Can’t yet. Gotta do the dishes first.”

  “Ara—” Mike’s brows lifted, sarcasm hovering in his tone, “I’ll do the dishes for you. Just go

  get some rest.”

  I shook my head. “No way. You’re a guest. Guests don’t do dishes, right, Dad?”

  Dad looked at Mike, then shrugged. “I don’t see why not—if he’s offering.”

  “Dad! You never side with me!”

  “I’m sorry, Ara, but Mike’s not really a guest, is he?”

  “Then what is he?”

  “He’s practically family.”

  My mouth hung open, allowing only a breathy scoff to display my disapproval.

  “Besides, Ar, you always made me do the dish

  es at your old house,” Mike added wit h a

  cheeky grin.

  “That’s different.” I bit my teeth together.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. ‘Cause it…it just is.”

  “Ara?” Mike scratched his eyelid and sighed. “Go to bed.”

  “Make me.” I folded my arms; he merely glared at me with o ne brow arched and a look of

  intent behind his half smile. “A rgh, fine!” I stood up, slapping my napkin on the placemat. “You’re

  all traitors.”

  As I reached the stairs, Mike’s l augh echoed out in response to some comment of Dad’s—

  probably about my mood swings.

  Stuff it. As if I care. They can have their little laugh—maybe they’ll annoy me just enough to

  make me accept the offer to run away from all of them forever.

  That’ll show ‘em.

  My room greeted me with the cri sp scent of fresh linen under a dilut ed waft of coconut

  bodywash and strawberry shampoo. I slammed my
door behind me and closed my eyes until they

  adjusted to the night.

  “David? You in here?” My gaze subconsciously flicked to the window; closed.

  Maybe it’s too early. I mean, he is coming all the way back from New York. Maybe he was

  driving, or maybe his shoes wore out on the long run and he had to stop to change them, or maybe…

  or maybe….he’s not coming.

  A gooey filling of dread burned a giant hole in my heart with its acid.

  What if he’s not coming back? What if last night really was the last one we’ll ever spend

  together.

  With rather quick steps, I walked to the window and threw open the curtains.

  No. No way. He wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye. He promised he wouldn’t.

  I covered my mouth with my hand and closed my eyes tight.

  He promised. But I br oke his heart. I dreamed of a wedding with another man. That would

  have destroyed him inside.

  “Oh, David.” I touc hed my fingertips to the glass. “Please come back to me. Please let me

  talk with you about this.”

  While I held my breath for every person who walked by our house, and looked up t o every

  branch that rustled in the wind, the voices downstairs faded t o quiet murmurs as the taps stopped

  running, the dishes stopped clin king and Dad’s footsteps thudded up the stairs and down the hall ,

  stopping when his door shut.

  I backed away from the window slowly and blinked a few times. My eyes had adjusted to the

  dim streetlight outside, and looki ng back into the dar kness of my room, I s uddenly couldn’t see a

  thing. The mess on my floor became dangerous obstacles as I stumbled into my wardrobe, changed

  into my pyjamas and stumbled back out to my room again.

  I stood motionless, scanning the shadows with my eyes. No David. He’s not here. He’s…

  A flood of weakness made my arms go numb. I closed my eyes tight, letting my knees hit the

  bulky pile of clothes beneath my feet.

  He’s not coming. I knew it. I knew it would be t oo good to be true—to have a whol e night

  with him—alone. No one else in the entire world aware of our existence. Just David and I, and t he

  night…and nothing else.

  My stomach trembled with suppressed sobs—or maybe the deep urge to thr ow up. But the

  welling tears around my lashes sp illed out anyway as heartbreak became the weak feeling in my

  bones. I lopped a hand across my gut, holding myself up with the other.