The White Rose Belongs to Me

Not a second of my whole life was spent outside the Castle of Lycoria. I was born under the blanket of the night and died chasing the shadow of my birth-giver. Nothing ever made me more afraid than the soaring thunder above the ceiling when the sun had dimmed and dipped beyond the untouchable line across the heavens.

My dear mother—they hid her for reasons I was forbidden to hear about, but I knew where they had kept her all my life. The maids—whose faces resembled cabbages—had often told me stories about my dear mother—stories of filth and havoc. None of them were acceptable to common sense. Lucky for them, I was born from a mad lady whose rationality had long escaped. All those stories about my mother were no news for me. I am her child in flesh and blood. Take me away from her, and all I need is a mirror to meet the face of my dearest carrier.

One doomed night, I crawled out of bed. It was a forsaken day, and I had been pushed to the edge of madness by all my old man's pets. My chest felt tight with blazing emotions storming up inside. If I had stayed in bed and swallowed my anger raw, I would have exploded like the little infant of one of our young maids. My steps crept warily through the alley to the main hall, passing murky bedroom doors of the serving men. They weren't supposed to sleep until midnight, and I was sure the night had passed its peak by the time I reached the hall.

All my life, I have despised the act of expressing fear. I forbid myself from doing so and cursed anyone who ever dared to do that before my eyes. Expressing fear, to me, has always been the peak of humanity's cowardice. I may not be my father's bravest child, but I am positive that I was not born to be a coward.

But it was on that convicted night that I let out my first and last scream of pure dread. I felt as if an otherworldly creature had broken its way out of my chest like a confetti pop.

In the middle of the moon-lit hall, stood Wilson, our youngest butler, whose age was only three years above mine, staring blandly straight at me. His face beamed with the moonlight, framed by his ebony bangs like a perfect artwork on a museum wall.

"You are not supposed to be here, Miss. Not at this time of the night."

His voice came out sounding distant, and I could have sworn I saw fog flaring out behind where he stood.

"And you," I said, "you are not supposed to be here, too."

I walked towards him and stopped when he turned to look away. None of us were supposed to be there. Not at this hour.

"Are you here to see her as well?"

His remark left me speechless. But more than that, I felt betrayed.

Everyone in this castle had done nothing but drive me mad. Ever since I no longer walk under the cape of childhood, I have found that I lack the fundamentality of being a decent person. At night, I would make my way to my secret place—a chamber located just under the long table in the hall. At first, I didn't think there would be a room in this castle that was safe from the servants' watch, but then I found this place when I was hiding from Mrs. Kevellyn's broom.

Inside it, I found acceptance and understanding.

It was so precious that I had decided to call it mine—that lonesome white rose.

My white rose loved to hum and squirm, but most of all, she loved being watched, and I was more than happy to have the honour of witnessing her live. In exchange, I told her stories—all the real and made-up ones, it doesn't matter which. My white rose loved every story of mine, and it only pushed me to think of more and more tales further from the grasp of reality and senses.

Often would my white rose remind me that life isn't like the ones I read in novels.

Growing up friendless, I befriended bookstacks and shelves. Having spent the majority of my time with books, I became accustomed to tales born from the despicable minds of mad men. I saw terrors that no eyes had ever witnessed and experienced the lives of non-existing people. The bleak injection of forgotten literature flowed within my veins, and all I spoke, I spoke with the voices of the dead.

Our basement library was like my private property. No one other than me ever had any business down there with the books, and I found that claiming something as my very own made life felt slightly relieving, for a brief moment. That's why I called the white rose in the chamber mine—my white rose.

And then another person came up asking me if I were to see her as well. What on earth did he mean by that? If anything, I was the one with the right to ask him the question. But of course, I wouldn't ask him that—I wouldn't ask anyone—because that white rose was mine, and I never thought about or considered sharing her with anyone, not even my father's most trusted servant.

"How long?" I asked, "how long have you been seeing her as well?"

"Quite long." Wilson avoided my gaze, still. His beaming face seemed to have grown a little pale, but far from the way one would express fear. Rather, he had confidence all over him. As if he knew this day would come, and that he would win over me. "I am the one who cleans her up and brings her food to eat every day, while all you ever did was pollute her with your abstract tales."

"So you've heard?"

"I have. But have you seen?"

"I order you to show me."

"And if I refuse?"

"Death shall greet you by tomorrow."

"But death is for everyone. Let's make a deal: I'll show you how to properly take care of her, and you shall let me have a piece of her."

"A piece!"

"You prefer if I take her whole, then?"

"A piece, fine by me."

We went into the chamber together that night, and my white rose shook in fright. I almost did not recognize her the way she did not seem to recognize me. Wilson held her down, and I have never seen such a scene in my short life before. My heart ached.

"I always clean her up and feed her after you deliver your tales. Go on. I'll show you how it's done after that."

I put my butt beside my poor white rose. The room was awfully quiet without her usual hum, and I found that I almost shed a tear.

"This story is about a lonely dove who lost its right wing." I began. "The people of The Red Forest had been acting a little strange. Instead of milking the cows, they started to milk their women and take their infants away from them for the cows. Seven years later, they began to notice that something had gone oddly wrong. It started when a little girl went door-to-door around the village to spread the news about a very sad dove. She told everyone that it was a very beautiful dove, yet it only had its left wing."