The Rose Room

The day began as any another day did.

Beatrice woke up, did her hour and a half ritual of getting ready for work, and left before the clock struck 8:00 A.M. Her life as an editor’s assistant was what she called “puzzle version.” Words—big and small, common and uncommon—crossed her vision each and every day., connecting her to things, places, people and ideas she never thought she could be connected to. She learned that certain things fit snug against her, and others placed themselves at a distance. A rare few confront her and inflict pain, leaving scars that will test the will of time with their permanence. Her life was consumed by words and all the feelings and emotions they could cause. She preferred it that way. To feel instead of experience. She’s done enough of that in her past. She’s done enough experiencing. Now . . . she's ready to live, truly live.

The day ended with the rejoice of a tragedy.

Several email responses, two meetings, and one private discussion with her boss later, Beatrice was free of work and pretending everything about her and life was perfect and okay. She had two problems that caused her two things: confusion and frustration. The first problem was that she had a boyfriend, Taylor, whom she loved with every fiber of her being, but he had secrets. He kept things from her and she knew it from the start. There were instances when he would get a dazed, an almost lost look on his stern, sculpted face. Then he would turn his head slightly, angling it at Beatrice as if in careful observation. His mouth would open, but no sound was emitted except for a careful breath and nothing more. Beatrice thought that Taylor lived his life constantly on an edge. He was always about to do something, always about to say something, but in the end, he never did. He was always about to tell her things but at the last possible second, he would stop himself and continue onto another topic of conversation. He was a calculated man, Beatrice knew. He seemed to never do or say anything without analyzing the situation carefully and to every last detail. Beatrice knew the silence he conveyed to her about his life was a move he made on her chess board of life. Beatrice closely protected things that were dear to her. She always took to protecting her Queen. Taylor. . . Taylor throwed caution out the window that day he bumped into Beatrice. He liked danger, a thrill. Taylor played the game carefully and would only make moves that made sense to him and no one else. If it came down to it, his Queen would be sacrificed for the greater good. He didn’t hold things closely, except if they were useful to him. Beatrice would find herself wondering if she was the love of Taylor’s life or a piece to be moved for his gain. She didn’t know the answer; she didn’t think she ever will.

The second problem Beatrice had was her past, her parents in particular. Well. . . her adopted parents. Her real parents were dead. Murdered in their sleep when Beatrice was at the ripe age of three, the age where life is seemingly perfect and predictable and no wrong—no evil—exists. As it turned out, evil existed within Beatrice’s grasp.

During the night of her parents’ murder, Beatrice heard a crashing noise and awoke scared and with tears in her eyes. She was worried and terrified, as any three-year-old would be if there was a sudden loud noise with an unknown origin, or at least, unknown to little Beatrice, who had a limited knowledge of worldly noises. She slowly and hesitantly rose up from her sleeping position, got up from bed. Her little toes touched the cold floor and scrambled away to the warmth the plush carpet five feet away guaranteed. The unknown noises got louder and louder, and Beatrice’s small ears couldn’t handle it. She covered them with her shaking hands. Her breathing got heavier, and it become harder to exhale and inhale. Her lungs were begging for substance but she just couldn’t give them what they forcibly asking for. She was too scared, too terrified to do anything. This was becoming one of the few moments where Beatrice wished she was older, so she could understand. Even at her young age, she knew those older than her didn’t tell her everything. She knew she was being left out, and she didn’t know, exactly, how she felt about that. But. . . she knew it didn’t like it—she didn’t like it at all.

While Beatrice was warming her toes and trying to breathe, the family’s butler and her father’s valet burst into the room. They looked around frantically, as if analyzing the room for anything amiss. Their eyes moved rapidly—up, down, everywhere— they looked everywhere. Then both their gazes found Beatrice, and they both sighed in relief. After they found her, her father’s valet picked her up and whispered in her ear, “I got you, sweetheart.” Then, softly, almost too soft that she almost didn’t hear. “I’m sorry this happened. I’m sorry for what your life is about to become.”

That night and the days that past were a blur. Her family’s maids packed up her life and moved into another big house, one like her parents. She knew that were gone now. She knew they were dead. But in her mind, she wished they would come back, wished they would come back to her and be a family again. But, little Beatrice’s dreams went unanswered. That was when Beatrice first learned what disappointment was.

Beatrice doesn’t remember much, but maybe that’s a blessing in disguise. A child couldn’t handle what most adults live with everyday. Three-year-old Beatrice wouldn’t have been able to move on with what twenty-five-year-old Beatrice now knew after her boyfriend confessed everything to her.

The house was quiet, too quiet, when Beatrice returned home. She only got as far as the foyer, but she knew from her first step into the house that something was amiss. Something happened.

There was a black book resting against the usually empty vase on the black table in the entryway. The cover was of the purest black and the parchment was pure white, a couple shades lighter than Beatrice’s pale complexion and several shades lighter than Taylor’s tanned appearance. His family was of Italian descent, so his skin resembled his ancestry quite well. And it made him attractive, but that fact only mattered to Beatrice.

The vase was full this time, which alarmed Beatrice once again that something has occurred. The vase of full of the darkest red roses, so dark that the roses were almost a deep, soulless black. Like the roses bloomed in the darkest pit of the Underworld, where the Sun never reached and the Moon never blessed.

Beatrice hesitantly walks up to the table and stared the black book down, fully expecting it to either disappear or grow teeth and bite her fingers off if she dared pick it up. To Beatrice’s luck, neither happened, so she picked up the book and opened it. She read what she saw silently. The script was beautifully written in her boyfriend’s hand.

“Come downstairs, love.”

She set the black book down and followed her boyfriend’s command.

Beatrice entered the basement and stopped immediately in her tracks. Normally, the basement is dark and and somewhat empty. Two of the four corners were usually full of a variety of boxes: some filled with holiday ornaments, others filled with the memories of childhood. The rest of the space was usually filled with furniture, ranging from a large black couch, two black coffee tables, three lamps (two table side, one stands on its own), and a media center that made the large space a considerable amount smaller by it’s dominance. Today, the room was empty of familiarity. Today, it was full of roses: dark red roses. They filled the room from ceiling to floor. The entire basement was a makeshift greenhouse for a macabre garden. The air was moist and cold. Goosebumps appeared on Beatrice’s arms and legs, and the hair on the back of her neck rose steadily.

In the center of the room, in the center of the large circle of roses, was a black table. This one was more ornate than the other coffee tables they owned. This table looked fresh from the Palace of Versailles, if Versailles suddenly turned into the setting of a gothic novel. The baroque styling of the table was haunting. It was as if the table was dipped in black iron and left to rest under the baking sun. There was an aged look to it.

On top the the table was a large bag duffle bag that looked like it was near bursting at the seams. The zipper was struggling to contain whatever was inside the bag. It was slow unraveling, so Beatrice walked up and finished the job for it. Inside the bag was money. Lots and lots of money. Stacks upon stacks of one-hundred dollar bills filled her vision. Her breathing quickly and she quickly returned to the night her parents were murdered. Just like that night, oxygen turned into a poison that hurt her, but she so desperately needed it to live, to move on. Beatrice heard a voice behind her. It was familiar, so she wasn’t alarmed.

“Turn around, love.”

Beatice obeyed the voice, and whipped around so fast that she made herself a little bit dizzy. Taylor was leaning against the wall. He was wearing all black tactical gear and his gaze was terrifyingly attractive. He did something, Beatrice thought. He did something he’s proud of. She uttered the words, “You’re back.”

Taylor moved to lean against the back wall and his left eyebrow moved up. His arms crossed in front of his body. His muscle were tease, Beatrice noticed. Oh, something definitely happened with her adoptive parents.

“I told you your parents would take long. I even had the time to make a little stop to one of there safes as the well. You know, the ones they thought they hid well.”

Beatrice smiled and said, “And?”

Taylor adjusted himself and made to moved toward Beatrice. He reached her in just a couple of steps and cusped her face with his rough hands. He said, with pride, “You’ve been avenged. Your parents’ murderers are dead.” Taylor smiled so I smiled back. At last, he said, “Yes, love. You’re free at least. And now, we’re $20,000 richer.”

Beatrice bit her bottom lip. She looked up at Taylor, her hero, and showed him her innocent eyes. “Wherever shall we begin?”