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If they didn’t accept me, then I wasn’t sure I’d survive it. I would die of a broken heart. Of rejection. Of loneliness. Like a wolf chased from the herd. I’d just lay out in the cold until my heart could stop beating.
He placed a kiss on my temple. I felt him leaning over me, enveloping me in his warmth, but he was trying not to touch me. He was being nice to me. Like he was comforting me. It made me burn and cry even more.
“Please don’t be kind to me, Alastair.” I begged, pressing my eyes closed. “I’d rather you hit me than do that.”
He ignored my words. Instead, he gently whispered in my ear, “Open your eyes and look at me.”
I shook my head.
“Open them, Rose.” He kissed my tears before whispering again, “Open your eyes and see what’s right in front of you.”
I shook my head. I didn’t know why. I didn’t know what was so significant, or what was so important for me to see. But I felt, somewhere under my ribs, that whatever I would see would change my world as I knew it, and I didn’t want that. I couldn’t do that with him. I couldn’t do that now.
My father was gone. My father-figure had been driven away, and was sure to be gone soon. I was alone in this world. One more thing… one more heartache would destroy me, and I knew it. I couldn’t take it.
“Rose, look at me.” I didn’t want to open my eyes. “Ask me for help.”
“Grenade.”
It was the only thing I could utter. It was too much. It was all too much.
I felt him pull away, his hands leaving my face, then coming off the chain link. With his warmth gone, I wanted to fall apart. With my eyes still closed, I was in darkness, alone. Everyone was gone, and I wailed. Somewhere from deep in my belly I screamed out into the darkness, raging against life, injustice, loneliness…
I was so loud that I didn’t hear the whispering that happened nearby. The low repetitive, prayer of a chant. I fell to my hands and knees, and opened my eyes to let the tears out, staring down at the cream-colored mat, my fingerless, gloved hands still in a fist.
When my banshee cries faded into nothing but little coughs, and whimpers, my ears could finally hear the voice that was whispering my name.
“Rose,” he whispered soothingly. He was close, but not close enough. “What have we done to you?” His voice was full of remorse. “Open your eyes, sweetheart. Come back and open your eyes.” He repeated these chants over and over again until the fog of sorrow left my senses.
Then I knew where I was. On the mat of the boxing ring, in the gym of some rich guy in Scotland. The room slowly faded back into my senses, and I could swallow my tears. I slowly peeled the gloves from my hands, leaving only the bandages on my knuckles. I stared at them, the top, the bottom, wondering at how they could hold on to so much grief, as if none of this had anything to do with me. As though I was looking down at something that was not a part of myself.
“You haven’t done anything to me.” I laughed. I was surprised by how bitter it sounded. “I was broken long ago. Brett held me together with his two hands, and now he’s gone. I’m the same as I ever was.”
I finally looked at Alastair, who was beside me on his knees, his hands in front of him as if he were reaching out, wanting to embrace me, but holding himself away.
He stared at me, and it was like a million emotions crossed his arctic eyes, changing them from the blue of the ocean, to the glint of steel, and back to the icy blue of a northern sky. His fingers, trembling, reached out to me, and pushed a strand of hair that was matted to my skin by sweat from my forehead.
I leaned into his hand.
“I said the safe word,” I said lamely, meaning to push him away, even though I craved his touch.
“And I’ve honored it.” He whispered. “This is something else entirely. No games. No play.”
I wiped my face again, feeling the snot and tears, and wishing I had a handkerchief to clear my face of all these disgusting things.
“You want to be in my arms.” His hand on my brow was the only connection between us.
I couldn’t deny it. I wanted to crawl into his arms, to pull myself into his lap and to live in the illusion of being with a real lover - the monogamous kind. The kind that led to more than whatever this could be. So I grasped for something - anything - to put more distance between us. To take me away from his lure.
“I hate that name.” I was grasping at straws to be mad at him. Anger was easier than everything else I was feeling.
Then he started humming a song. It was light and familiar. Old. Something from the turn of last century, when films were black and white, and the sound was on a phonogram. It was familiar, but I couldn’t recall. Or I didn’t want to recall.
When I raised my eyes to him, he smiled. It was so slight.
Then he parted his lips and his lovely baritone voice was gentle, soothing and familiar words to the song I was named for:“Of all the queens that ever lived, I choose you to rule me, my Rose Marie.”
My heart sank to the stomach, and I pulled away from his hand.
