Although earlier I was happy to let his sweet but incomprehensible whispers wash over me, this single word brings my swirling thoughts to a screeching halt. I give up trying to figure out if I just had some type of visual hallucination or seizure, as this single word takes root in my melting brain.
I think he just called me some version of Rose.
Rose. Why is this concerning?
Alarm bells go off as I try to figure out why I’m bothered he would use ‘Rose’ as a term of endearment for me. That doesn’t even sound like my name. Maybe that is something from his language?
My brain stumbles over thoughts of how roses could somehow be connected to me until at last a vivid image of me reaching out and stroking a midnight red petal crystalizes in my mind.
Oh, shit. Was it him? Did he fill my home with flowers? Did he break into my house?
“What did you call me?”
I watch the passion fade from his eyes.
“What?” he asks.
He knows exactly what I am hinting at. I’m convinced he does.
“What did you call me?” I enunciate each word with artic chill.
Time slows, my languid muscles start tensing until my entire body is rigid with fury. My brain starts ringing warning bells while my heart, my poor heart, breaks into a million shattered pieces.
My mother had few pretty things, too worldly, but she had one beautiful Waterford crystal vase. One day I had been playing make believe with my dolls, wishing I had a real Barbie. A brand name Barbie from a pink box with blonde hair and blue eyes rather than the generic, church-sanctioned, far less sexy version approved by my father.
That sparkly vase on the top shelf of the China cabinet full of boring white company dishes was so pretty, and in my child’s mind, it would make the most amazing addition to the sad cardboard faux-Barbie house I had made.
I pulled over a chair and carefully climbed up. I stretched and stretched until at last, on my very tippy toes, I hooked my little fingertips into the thick rim of that vase. I carefully inched it toward me, and just when it was in my grasp, my father yelled my name. As I spun around in surprise, my fingers slipped off the rim, and it fell.
I dropped the only beautiful thing my mother had. A wedding gift from her mother. And down, down, down it fell, scattering rainbows on its descent until finally it hit the floor, shattering on impact and sending crystal shards everywhere. I was hysterical with fear of my father, but even worse was the incredible sadness I felt at causing my mother pain.
Her special vase lay in a million jagged pieces at my feet. It was gone and there was nothing I could do. Just like now, all I can do is watch my heart fall to the floor at my feet and shatter into a million jagged pieces, just like that fucking vase.
A pile of beautiful, worthless shards.
“Roza,” he breathes, not letting me go.
I narrow my eyes, staring back at the uncanny amber so reflective of my own. My voice breaks and I barely get out, “Was it you?”
He looks abashed. “Was it me what?”
“Was it you who filled my home with roses? Was it you who broke into my home, violated my trust, and scared me half to death? Was. It. You?”
My chest is heaving, my voice rising in anger as the longer I talk, he doesn't answer. But I already know the truth.
There’s no going back. I couldn’t put the vase back together. I couldn’t take away my mother’s sob as my father told her with relish, throwing out my only faux-Barbie, declaring it the devil’s doll. And now, I don't know how I will be able to glue the pieces of my heart back together either.
Damn it.
Fucking damn it to hell. Of course, he’s a stalker. Of-fucking-course I would attract the crazy hot guy. Not the regular hot guy or even the average-looking but blessedly normal guy. He’s a unicorn. The hotness and crazy are exponentially related.
I can’t believe I started falling for the crazy stalker man. With rising dread, I realize, the crazy stalker man who is my neighbor! I can’t escape him if I wanted to.
“Please let me go,” I whisper.
My chest gets tighter, and those poor butterflies taking flight? They die. I’m filled with death’s-head hawk moths. Dead ones at that. Of course, no freaking sunshine and rainbow butterflies for me! Of course, no happy fucking endings.
I kick myself for, once again, reaching for more, thinking I could be more, have more.
