The Knight Of The Rose (41 page)

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.”

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.”

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 really 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.

Resting back on the tide of inert reality, I let the waves of isolation carry me away.

“How is she?” The voice echoe d through my endles s night, resonating from somewhere

behind me. But there was no one here. I didn’t even bother to look. The fight to hold on to reality

was a battle I gave up long ago—so, I just listened to hear what these voices said.

I could feel that I was weak—not my body,

that was long gone—but my mi nd or spirit,

whatever it was that kept me here this l imbo, this death that never ended, this hell that never

changed. I couldn’t remember how I got here, and I couldn’t remember where here was. But I knew a

voice; he called himself Mike. Though, whoever just spoke sounded different.

“No change,” said a woman; her voice was familiar, too.

“Can she hear us?” he said. “Her monitor changes when I speak. See?”

“It’s just static.” As soon as t hat man spoke, I knew it was Mike. The other one s ounded

almost too smooth to be Mike; l iquid, if that was the right word. I’d heard his voice from time to

time, but he’d never said his name.

“It’s not static. Look, she can hear me.”

“You wish.”

“Mike,” the woman whispered. “Be nice.”

“Fine,” Mike said in a tone that indicated a set of folded arms to go with it. “From what I

know, the doc says she can.”

“Ara? My love.” Mr. Smooth sounded closer than before. “I’m so sorry—” he said. “Please?

Please come back to me?”

My love?
This was familiar to me somehow, if an ything could even be familiar anymore.

Could he be speaking to me—am I Ara? The name rung a bell, but...

A cold sensation stopped my thoughts, bringing something to life—an old memory—a distant

reflection.

My hand. I felt it. I could feel my hand.

A smile burst within me, radiating through my soul like liquid as I rejoiced for the brilliance

of a hand. I t hought they’d taken it, I thought they’d taken everything, but the cold against my hand

confirmed it was s till there. And if my hand was stil l there, I wondered if, maybe....maybe this

wasn’t death after all.

Maybe it was...
something else.

I focused on the memory of touch and boiled t he strength de ep inside my non-existent

stomach—pushing all the force out through my arms—and then, I squeezed the cold with my fingers.

“Did you see that?” the stranger said. “I think...I think she just squeezed my hand!”

He felt that? He knows I’m here . He felt me? I squeezed harder, trying to pull myself back

into consciousness.

“She did. She squeezed my hand. Look.”

“What do you mean
she squeezed your hand
?” Mike’s voice came from closer than before

and, though it was still dark, I fe lt space around me—felt him clos e to me. The echoing mist of

eternity flowed out through the cracks in my subconscious, leaving me whole again. I could feel my

body; could feel solidity in my limbs. They felt heavy. Really heavy. I didn’t remember being this

heavy. I couldn’t move them yet, but they were there, and so was gravity.

I love gravity. I’ve missed gravity.

“Ara.” The smooth stranger interrupted my moment of celebration.

I’m here
, I thought loudly.
I’m here!

“Ara,” he called again.