The Knight Of The Rose

by A. M. Hudson

  No one. And no one is coming for me.

  I’m dying, Mum, I whispered inside, look what he did to me.

  “I know.” The memory of her nodded, reaching for me. “Come on, it’s time to go now.”

  But I’m not ready. There’s still so much I want to do. I want to see David again, tell him I’m

  sorry—tell him I’ll love him forever—and I will become a vampire.

  “I know,” she said with a symp athetic smile, like everything was okay. But it wasn’t. Not at

  all.

  Mum, please, help me. This is life. It’s not a joke. Please, this can’t be it. I’m not ready to die.

  “Death is only the beginning, Ara. There is so much more for you now.”

  No! No. I want to go home! “Please, take me home?” Cold air brushed out past my lips—

  colder than it should be. I thought I felt my hands shaking, but wasn’t sure. The only thing I knew I

  felt was the warm, mucky feeling of something sticky under my head and all over the side of my

  neck. I struggled to open my eyes—to remember where it was I had fallen asleep—or how I got

  there. I fought against t he blackness—screaming inside my head. I couldn’t move anything,

  couldn’t even envision myself fighting, because there was nothing left to fight with—nothing in t he

  room; no sound, no air, no light. Like I was buried underground.

  “Mum!” I screamed. “Mum. Am I dead?”

  But she was gone. Everything was gone.

  The strange wor ld smothered me, ti ghtening around my ribs and maki ng the air thin and

  humid. I felt like I was being pulled down—like I was swimming against a strong current and losing

  the fight. I tried to ki ck my legs, to clutch at my throat and tear the belt of restraint away, but my

  hands were gone, there was nothing to move, nothing to free me from the sweltering wrap of my own

  death. And then, from deep in the darkness, a warm grip pulled me back to the night. A hand.

  Something waking me fr om the depths of my own fear. I held ont o it with my mind, focused on it

  with all of my strength until I heard a voice; “Ara? Baby, oh baby.” It echoed like an old memory.

  “God, what has he done to you—?”

  “Mike?” I think I whispered.

  “Ara.” His golden voice hit the walls of my subconscious and bounced off the empty space

  around me. “You stay with me…with me…with me,” it echoed again. “Ara, pleas e—don’t let go…

  let go…let go—” I felt a hand around t he back of my head, and a heavy co ld settled on my limbs,

  making me wish I could sleep. Just fall asleep and everything would be okay.

  “Mi-ke.”

  “Oh, God!” his voice became rough and distraught; “Get help—please, she’s losing too much

  blood. Get help!”

  Nothing. No stars, no sound. I tried to open my eyes to see against the black, but as I truly

  noticed the emptiness for the first time, I felt my heart stop; my eyes were already open.

  “Mike?” I called, but my own voice fell flat in front of me, as if I ’d spoken into cupped

  hands. I waited; waited past that moment you expect everything to be okay, past the breath you held

  when you thought you heard something, and finally felt myself realise what happened.

  I’d let go.

  Perfect silence. Complete weightlessness, it almost made me breathless—like I needed sound

  or orientation to remind me how to breathe. I couldn’t breathe—couldn’t suffocate because there was

  only emptiness where my lungs should be.

  The only thing I could actual ly feel were tiny dancing butterflies in every inch of me,

  fluttering across every part of my body that had turned into air.

  I tried to clench my fist, to wri ggle my fingers and toes, but they were gone—all of them,

  everything, just gone. I felt tied up , restrained, wrapped in clear film and stored in a tig ht space. I

  wanted to break free, but there was nothing to break free from.

  I was gone.

  Mike was gone.

  The world was gone.

  Everything was gone...

  Floating through space and tim e—for how long, I didn’t k now—I hoped morning would

  come. But days or maybe years seemed to pass. I’d waited, losing myself in the weightlessness of

  this world, with no way of measuring the unbearable solitude—the existence of nothing.

  Maybe this is hell.

  It reminded me of the time I went swimming as a little girl; I’d closed my eyes and floated in

  the water for a while. With my ear s under the cool water, I could hear only the rushing of the ocean

  and the sound of my own thoughts. I thought it was peaceful then, but here in this blackness, all

  alone, still floating and unable to find the shore—it was just unimaginably confining.

  I always wondered what death would be like. I thought it would be peaceful. But the only

  thing in the afterlife was memories, hidden behind shadows in the darkness. And when the darkness

  got too much, those memories became nightmare s—unhappy endings I ’d keep going over i n my

  mind—over and over again, never able to find the conclusion, because there’d never be a conclusion.

  Not for me, anyway.

  My last breath would have been taken in the ar ms of my best friend. I wanted to cover my

  half naked body—to tell Mike that Jason didn’t ra...well, that he didn’t do what everyone will think

  he did. Tears of frustration and anger wanted to release from my eyes, but with no face and no eyes

  to cry from, they became trapped in me, lodged l ike a rolled-up sock in my chest—quivering and

  growing into a feeling I had never kno wn before. I wanted to rattle the bars of my cage, to scream at

  those responsible.

  But rage always wore down t o misery, and when mis ery was unreleased, trapped in by

  nothingness, it turned to fear, then to rage again. It was an endless cycle. And even that made me

  mad, because there was just nothing...nothing I could do to make it stop.

  “Let me outta here!” my mind called into the dar kness. I imagined myself circling around,

  gripping my hair with both hands, falling to the floor with my head in my knees.

  It did no good to picture it though. I still felt just the same.

  “Mike!” I imagined myself looki ng up—to wherever up was. “Mike,” I said. “He didn’t rape

  me!” I needed him to know that. I needed him to know how sorry I was for leaving the dance—for

  trusting Jason—for being so damn stupid.

  “Mike? Please, please be there. Please be there.”

  But nothing ever answered back.

  The rage subsided agai n and I watched my im agination fall to her kn ees. She looked so

  fragile and human, so broken and alone.

  You were nothing to him, she thought in her own mind. You were human, and vampires rarely

  fall for humans—since they eat them. He tried to tell you, Ara-Rose, but you didn’t listen. You never

  listen...and now you’re dead.

  Dreams had happened in the blackness. Once or twice I’d seen myself somewhere else, only

  to wake in the nothing again.

  As I wandered forward, of full body, like the last dream, I knew this was just another one.

  The emptiness around me was coloured with blue plumes of smoke, r ising up, gripping my

  ankles and hips wit h creeping fingers. The messa ge I’d been trying t o get to my fiancé was still

  trembling on my lips, stuck, like a ghost t hat couldn’t cross over. “Mike?” I said weakly into

  the darkness. “Mike, please listen.�
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  With each step I took, I could feel the fine, tickly tips of the grass between my toes. I walked

  through the smoke, reaching out to find anything at my fingertips. I’d take a tree in the head ri ght

  now—just to feel.

  When the sound of soft, ragged breaths came from somewhere ahead, I looked deeper into

  the darkness—past the blur, past the shadows.

  Then, I saw him.

  “Mike?”

  He didn’t look up. As he became completely visible for the first time, so too did the world

  around him—but not me. The storm clouds overhead raged and swirled, lapping the horizon with the

  promise of a wild night, but my hair, my dress and my existence stayed frozen in time.

  Mike stood hunched and shaking, one hand spla yed out on something stone, whil e his lungs

  fought to find the breath that would make it all okay. “Ara, baby. I’m so, so sorry. I—”

  I watched on, my lip trembling, my tears edging tightly on the brink of hysterics, while Mike

  lost his words to grief, reaching into his pocket and removing a tight fist.

  My thumb landed on my ring finger when the gentle tink of glass forced my eyes to see what

  he placed atop the headstone. “This is where it be longs now,” he said and backed away, wiping a

  weary hand across his lips. As his shadow receded, allowing th e light against the wor ds on t he

  headstone, the core of my being imploded:

  ‘Ara-Rose: Never made it home.’

  All life drew from my soul, l ike my existence happened in reverse for that spil t second, and

  the remains of the ring I once wore for love bled out over the stone—weeping crimson tears across

  my name.

  I stumbled on my heels, reaching out for something to ground me. The dream slipped away—

  becoming smaller until it was no longer visibl e, swallowed up by the black, but s

  till existing

  somewhere out there—somewhere I could never go to . They all existed out there somewhere, and I

  would never know their smiles, their voices, their warm arms, ever again.

  Ghosts are supposed to watch—to see who was at their funeral, to see who mourns them. I

  was supposed to see David again. I was suppos ed to know if he came to my grave to mourn me t he

  way he did his aunt . I was supposed to sit beside him, comfort him though he’d never know I was

  there. But it was all gone. Just gone. Like Mum and Harry. They were only a memory or a dream or

  a hope. Who knows, maybe I never existed. Maybe my entire life was just a dr eam. Maybe David

  was.

  “Or maybe this is the afterlife,” my imagination said. She appeared in full light, a soft, golden

  glow in the darkness, her pale dress billowing like the fingers of a ghost.

  “Maybe,” I thought. “Maybe death is nothing like the story-books. It’s not peaceful—there

  are no happy reunions with those you love, and...from what I can see....” I looked around again, “no

  God, either.”

  I had called to him, called to everyone I could think of —even called to Rochel le. But she

  wasn’t there. God wasn’t. Buddha. Anyone. Just me. Just me and my regrets.

  “And me,” said my imagination.

  I wanted to shake my head. She wasn’t there either. I wasn’t sure there was even a mind. I

  knew only an eternity of nothing—my punishment, I guess, for condemning David to an eterni ty of

  longing, without me.

  It was the little things I missed the most in this hell; like a smile or colour or twisting my ring

  around on my finger—my ruby rose. Mike will be so sad that I can’t wear it anymore. And I once

  thought David would be so sad that I did wear it. But I guess time changes our assumptions.

  “I wonder what he’ll do—David—when Jason shows him the memory of what he did to us,”

  the imagination said.

  We didn’t need to wonder though. “David will hate me for letting Jason hold me the way he

  did in the tree, so close and so intimate, like I had loved him before.”

  He told me once, so long ago, that the touch of human skin to a vampire is like a thousand

  kisses of ecstasy; like satiating an eternal hunger with the warmth of one breath.

  He wanted so badly to rest my bare skin against his ches t and hold me cl ose to him again—

  like we did by the lake.

  I wish I could go back—t ell him I’m sorry. I should have st ayed on t he dance f loor with

  Mike; I should never have gone with Jason.

  “But you knew that then, didn’t you?” she asked. “You went with Jason, knowing deep inside

  that he was dangerous. You tempted fate, tempted danger, so David would realise how precious we

  are to him, and stay with us forever.”

  I thought about it for a second. “If that’s true, then I am one big, epic fail, and I will never

  have a another chance to learn from my mist akes.” And I will never know why David di dn’t show

  for the last dance.

  “Don’t you remember?” the imagination said, smiling. “He told you that vampires leave and

  move on without saying goodbye, without telling people why.”

  I nodded. “Yes, because it raises more suspicions when questions are asked. They simply

  send a let ter resigning f rom jobs or school, and they are never seen again...” As I finished the

  sentence, realisation struck me worse than shock. “Is that what he did to me? Did he leave me, and I

  never saw it coming? Did he convince me that he’d come back so that I wouldn’t try to fol low or

  find him?”

  “I think you know the answer to that question, Ara.”

  “No. That can’t be right.”

  “But it is right. David didn’t come....because David never was coming.”

  The remains of my existence suddenly gave up in that mo ment. If I could have been

  speechless or stared blankly, I would have. “Then he really is just as the memory Jason showed me.”

  “Yes,” the imagination snickered, “and you were just another victim of his cruelty.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Time has no meaning anymore—or maybe it had no meaning. I could still count, and already,

  I’d counted more hours than I cared to believe. I knew one thing for sure—weeks had passed since I

  died. My body will have begun to decompose by now; the skin peeled back from my fingertips, my

  mouth agape, home to all manne r of crawling things. But the wo rst part is not knowing what

  happened to those I left behind; Mike especially, and my dad.

  Dad will never be able to cope with the horrific way in which I would’ve been found; Mike

  will never be able to think of me again. Which makes me glad I’m dead. I don’t want to see their

  eyes—full of pity and indignant gr ief. I wonder how long Mike waite d before returning to Perth. I

  wonder if he’ll move on, join Tactical, get married one day and—forget I ever existed.

  I hope not; the very thought made me feel sad—like my life was just a waste.

  But my existence at least gave David a reason to live—or so he told me. Only, now, he’ll face

  an eternity without hope of finding love again. Et ernity is so long. I’d suffer t his empty blackness

  forever to wish he’d find happiness again—even if he never truly loved me.

  One thing that hadn’ t changed in death was t he way my mi nd kept skipping between

  conclusions. With thoughts being my only compan ions, the switching back from knowing he loved

  me to the strong realisation that he never di d, has been real
ly painful—and frankly, I was getting

  tired of hearing my own voice—or thoughts. But there really was nothing else to do.

  As I focused on the watery feel of my eternal loneliness, I thought I heard a sound—another

  voice—not mine. I think. Sometimes my memories sounded like voices, and I ’d always get excit ed

  until I realised that the things they were saying had already happened.

  I heard the voice again and quietened all my thoughts for a second.

  How can that be a voice when I’m buried so deep in the ground?

  Shh, I told myself.

  “Ara?”

  In my mind, I sat taller. No. That was a voice!

  “Ara?” it said again.

  Hello?

  “Ara, I’m so sorry, baby.”

  Mike? Mike! That can’t be him. Mike, don’t be sorry. I—

  “If you can hear me,” he cut me off, “please, just squeeze my hand. Please? Just once, that’s

  all I need. Just one—” his voice trailed off into soft sobs.

  Mike? Can you hear me?

  Nothing. I waited. But there was only a clogged-up feeling in my ears and a gentle rushing of

  wind, like the distant sound of a waterfall.

  “No change?” another voice spoke. It startled me so much to hear another voice that I was

  almost sure my heart skipped.

  “No. Doc says her heart’s not coping.”

  “Time will tell.” The other voice, so deep and smooth, sounded void of all emotion.

  “Where are you going?”

  “She needs rest, and my being here is....” there was a long pause, “pointless.”

  Only a long sigh followed that.

  I wanted to reach out and touch Mike, but there was still no space or anything solid around

  me. I felt like I was in a ballroom, with all the candles doused, and onl y the soft whisper of voices

  somewhere in another room. I won dered if the voices were a dream, a memory—or i f this wasn’t

  actually death, but a nig htmare where I was trapped in darkness, forever close to them, forever just

  within reach but unable to touch them?

  Mike’s gentle and distant chatter dissipated, l eaving me floating, by myself again, ever more

  alone, ever more confused.

  I so badly wanted it to be Mike, to have really heard his voice. But the dead do not hear t he

  living, and the living can never again see the dead.