By Jun-Ko
"Roses are red, roses have thorns
Hell hath no fury like a little girl scorned."
--
She doesn't know how to tell him that she's tired of this game; this finger-twined wrist wrapped game of mottled shadows, this foreplay of thought. Cathedral handprints on the whitewashed linen. Dark, but not too dark for him.
Little bird. Bird cage bones, brittle spine that threatens to snap beneath the weight of his conscience. She's feigning sleep again to watch him watch her, the virgin girl lying awake to her crimes.
"Robin."
He sounds sad. He's whispered it again, and his breath is whiskey-soaked. One night, she spies on him through his door, the light stealing into the hallway ajar and forboding, boasting of his most private ministrations, one hand clutching the sheets, his back to her but she knows what's happening. Lust rushes in begging for her to act upon her carnal impulses and enter his chamber but she waits until the blood in her body has stopped and cooled before she leaves him to his monochrome ecstacy -- the image of which makes her blush rose-red and burns itself into her irises, her occular cavities, through the atrioventricular valve and gut.
She smiles and shuts her door behind her, dress unpeeling for the evening. She says his name once before and once after kneeling and clasping her hands together in prayer.
The Immaculate Heart of Mary, Most Blesses Virgin, Merciful Mother, Virgin Most Powerful, Seat of Wisdom, Tower of Ivory, Mystical Rose, Queen of the Apostles Martyrs and all the Saints, Mother Undefiled, pray for us. Me. White Rose of Purity, Winsome One, the Daintiest Jewel that God hath ever made, Great Casket of Mysteries, Princess Fair, that death may be a prelude to thy kiss, amen. Amon.
But she knows roses are red.
That night, when he watches her again, ears perked, eyes peaked, searching for the faintest spark of irregularity in her, he must have drifted off because he murmured, "Touko." And immediately there are sparks. Of tears. Of nightmares. She dreams of burning candy clouds, of a woman with blonde hair burning.
He's lying.
She knows it's her he's dreaming of. Not her...
She's tired of this game, where he pretends that he doesn't want her but she knows he does; why else does he watch? Surely not because he's afraid. He fears nothing. He doesn't even shut his door to her anymore.
She's red and crying, unaware of his stirring, the virgin girl lying awake to her crimes until she isn't.