You got a trusting heart, baby girl.
That’s what my pop used to say to me every time my heart was stomped on by some asshole boy who didn’t deserve my time, let alone my love. He’d make me a hot chocolate if it was raining or take me for a walk around his rose garden while he smoked a slim cigar. The scent of one appears out of nowhere every now and again, and I like to think it’s him making his presence known. The warm tone of his voice would soothe my hurts, and while it couldn’t fix my heart, knowing somebody loved me while it was fixing itself was enough.
Yet I somehow kept on giving my heart away, giving it over and over until I realized that true love doesn’t exist.
True romantic love is a falsehood.
It’s a fantasy.
I’ve built a life for myself that I love. Sure, it’s a lonely one. But I’m an in-demand graphic designer. And I earned enough money that I decided to try and make it in New York. My apartment was small, my freelance work flowing. And I recently signed a contract with a major ad agency right in Manhattan. I felt good about how my life was shaping up. But maybe that was all a fantasy too.
Four weeks. That’s how long I lasted in New York before the very thing my dad had worried out about happened.
It’s not safe, Rose. You’re the kind of girl who runs down dark alleys at night. They’ll eat you alive.
My dad has belittled and doubted my capabilities my entire life.
Looking at myself in the mirror of Saint’s sparse bathroom, I still can’t bear to think about how he might have been right.
Because all it took was one date. That was it. He’d said his name was Kris. We’d talked for a few days before. In person, we’d flirted. He’d been a gentleman. And now it makes sense why he was such a good listener. He’d asked about my family back home and how I was settling in the city. I’d been honest. Too honest.
So, when I saw him two days later in a van near my apartment, I trusted him. I stepped forward, moved closer, believed him as he fumbled over the seat to get something out of the back of the van. A gift, he’d said, for me. Even when he asked for my help to reach it, I still trusted him. Until strange hands were on me, and I was dragged through the side door.
My thick blonde hair is a sweaty mess. Scars and scratches run along the side of my face, and judging by the pus oozing out of one of them, they are infected. I feel my forehead. I’m hot. Yeah, sure sign of an infection. My body is covered in bruises, and the welts on my wrists sting like vinegar is being poured on them.
My brown eyes are devoid of emotion. Flat, as I stare into them.
Steam fills the bathroom, the water hot and plentiful, but I can’t move.
I fought with all I had.
Until there was nothing left.
I hate that I let them take me, beat me, and grind me down.
The man who thought he owned me had a high widow’s peak and an aquiline nose. He looked at me as if I was everything but treated me like I was nothing.
And I hate him with every fiber of my being.
My teeth start to chatter again, and I shake uncontrollably.
“Move, Rose,” I tell myself, using my real name and not the nickname Pop gave me all those years ago.
My sweet Briar.You have the beauty of a wild rose but need to use your thorns to stop your petals from getting stomped on.
The name stuck.
I step into the shower and wince, trying to visualize all the infection and pain washing down the drain with the swirls of my blood, but ...
I sob.
I slam my palms against the cool tile, wanting anger to replace the agony. Either is better than thinking about what has happened to me.
But the thoughts and pain become too loud of a buzz in my head. I can’t keep it in. The box I’ve forced every feeling and emotion into shatters open, and the sound I make can’t be described.
It’s too guttural to be a scream.
Too piercing to be a moan.
