O Rose thou art sick.
The invisible worm,
That flies in the night
In the howling storm:
Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy
And his dark secret love
Does thy destroy.
- William Blake
Dear Emmett,
You haunt me in the most literal sense. I've seen you staring back at me in the mirror sometimes, walking down the corridor I sometimes here your footsteps, and even in the blinking fluorescent light of the janitor closet I get the impression that you are here with me.
My family have disposed of me. I am depressed, manic, unfit and unstable.
Seabreeze Haven is not a haven and the seabreeze brings across an awful stench of decaying sealife. I would hate it, but I can't seem to draw enough passion to hate anymore, even caring requires too much energy. They treat as like bags of sallow flesh that must be kept breathing but not quite alive. I am herded around, to take my pills, to eat than to sit and stare, to sleep, take more drugs, eat, sleep, so forth is the routine.
He leads me into the closet like a lamb to the slaughter. The drugs make me compliant, but he tells me I am a good girl. Sometimes he makes me kneel on the dirty ground, other times he arranges me on his cot. He uses two musty, folded wool blankets piled on top of each other as pillows. He breathes hard on my face and grunts like a pig most times. I want to laugh, but then again, I would have to care.
I think about you a lot. I get so sentimental and nostalgic sometimes that I want to scream and thrash and act like the crazy person I seem to be.
There is this one moment that keeps coming back to me, and it won't leave me alone. Do you remember when we climbed the roof of that bank in that dead end town? The specifics don't matter and I don't seem to remember the exact specifics anyway, but it is that feeling that I remember the most, when you screamed into that chilled air
"I am Emmett and you are my red, red Rose"
Am I still your red, red Rose?
Because I don't feel it anymore; I am my own sick, sick Rose.
Rosalie.