Stained Rose - Prologue

Content Warning: This chapter contains partial nudity, alcohol, smoking, suggestive themes, animal death, suicidal thoughts, and others.

“How are you faring, mein Sternenlicht?” Rosalie Winsloe asked, eyes shifting back and forth from the model to the pencil skating along the paper at a fast pace.

A young woman lies on top of a half-rotted maple altar; one arm raised above her head while the other rests over her eye, white fur drapes her bare body and long raven hair cascading. “Relaxed, mon Soleil.” Marie Bonheur languidly replies, “Any longer and I might fall asleep on the spot.” chuckling to herself.

“Hopefully, I won’t have to explain to Lawrence why his dear Frau is running late.”

“Should that happen, then wake me with a knight’s kiss,” she stifles a chuckle, a touch of mischief dances behind her sparkling sapphire eyes.

Rosalie’s cheeks darken, eyes focusing on the final touches as quickly as her hand could move. “You can get up now,” she snatches a glass of red wine and hastily drinks, “and keep the blanket on!”

She rolls to the altar’s edge and grabs her glass, partaking in the dark nectar. Her other hand is holding onto the pulse blanket close to her bosom, barely containing her excitement. Rosalie passes the book to her with a finger between its pages.

Marie takes the book from her hand and sits up at the edge. Her eyes scans the page in silence and drinking in every detail down to the last stroke. Rosalie occupies herself by fixing the young lady’s black hair back into a low-pompadour style, even dressing her back neck with coiled loops. But despite keeping her hands busy, her muscles are pulled taut and sweat forms on her red brow. Every second turns into long excruciating hours waiting for some form of response.

“Is this me? I look…” she squints at the sketch. “Revolting! I looked like an albino monkey wearing seaweed wasting away in the Spanish sun!”

Rosalie draws back and lets out a small high-pitched scream, her face losing color and mouth warped into a gaping frown. “Oh Lord, I’ve tainted your image!” Her voice shaking and hands clutching her own face.

Marie snorts, a loud cackle erupts from her throat and slaps her knee. “Your face is priceless, mon Soleil,” she wears a warm smile and wipes a tear away. “It’s wonderful ma chère, like looking into a mirror, you even got my beauty mark,” her finger points to a black dot below her right eye.

“Sternlicht, du Fuchs,” she scowls briefly before breaking into laughter and lightly punching her arm. She sighs and lays her head on Marie’s shoulder, contentment on her face. “You make an excellent model.”

“You’re too sweet, anymore and you might have to carry me back home,” chuckling at her own comment, head resting in red hair. “Do you think you could draw one with a touch color? I’d love to see my precious eyes captured in these pages,” her hand lays on top of Rosalie’s delicate ones.

“I don’t know. Colors seem like a different beast, one little mistake and the sky could become the dirt we walk on or turn the ocean into the ten plagues from Exodus.”

“Perish the thought! You repeat those same words about people. Look at this, you made this,” She points at the new drawing, “I know you can do it, I’ve seen it before,” giving her an assuring smile.

Rosalie looks into her blue orbs, releasing a sigh, “Very well, I’ll give–”

Sharp rustling disturbs the tranquil scenery of the weather-worn church, their bodies frozen in place like deers, only moving their eyes and nothing else. Rosalie presses a finger to her lips and carefully slips her other hand into the wicker basket, unsheathing a dark six-shot revolver with her index sticking out next to the trigger. She motions Marie to stay, walking in a feline-fashion into the unfiltered light, making little noise through the sea of forgotten headstones lost to time and claimed by nature. The end of the barrel moves from target to target but never firing a single shot. Her head whips at the rustling leaves from the underbrush.

She smirks, “Found you.” Thumb carefully pulling the hammer back and a finger curling the trigger.

Before she could fire, something tackles her to the ground, almost hitting the sugared stone; a firm grip on her waist and the other pins the gun. A loud growl sends shivers through her veins and the deafening heartbeats overtakes her ears. She turns her head skyward to find Marie, covered in her chemise and wearing a white toothy grin, reminiscent of a predator preparing to clamp down on its prey.

“Unhand me!” She tried wriggling out of her grip, but her efforts were in vain.

Marie responds with little more than giggles, leaning towards her soft neck with snapping jaws, while her vibrant eyes glint with childlike mischief. But one shaky arm held her head in place from her peach skin.

Panic morphs to an aggressive growl, akin to a cornered beast, Rosalie shouts, “Get off!” Using her remaining strength, she pushes her into the tall grass. She takes a few breaths and lifts herself up on a headstone, fixing her psyche knot and brushing off any debris. “We’re lucky a wild bear or some escaped lunatic didn’t kill us!” Marie’s body shrinks in on itself from each word. “What if I decorated your body with holes?” She shows the revolver, pushing it in her face as tears roll down her puffed eyes, “I don’t want to… to…” She collapses on the grass and the gun slips from her grip.

Marie slowly walks to her weeping form, preparing to wrap her arms around her but stops halfway. “I… I thought the noise might have been harmless, like a deer or rabbit. I thought maybe we’d play a little,” speaking in a low tone, like a child who just got scolded by their parents.

Another rustle draws their attention, every fiber in their muscles tenses. Once more she brandishes her revolver while Marie safely stays behind. The leaves cease their movement. Emerging from the leaves is a fox, its head tilts at the frightened women with curiosity and bewilderment before scurrying back into the wild. Rosalie breaths out a sigh of relief and relaxes her grip on the handle. The two collapse to the ground and take each other in an embrace, time reduced to a stand still. Any longer and they might have become a part of the crumbling cemetery.

“Stay.”

Eventually they return to the old church and continue conversing about many topics; from the jubilation of Marie’s son, Aloyse, saying his first words, to disgust of a naive man being head over heels over a haughty woman wearing acrid perfume that would make anyone retch within a meter radius. As their conversation progressed, she was becoming less talkative and more apathetic, eyes drifting towards the crumbling entrance.

“Soleil, I must confess.” She spoke tentatively, eyes struggling to meet her face, “I will not attend next week’s afternoon tea or the entire month,”

Rosalie only tilts her head to one side and loosely folds her arms.

“His family wants us to visit them in New Brunswick and my brother invited us to their wedding in Quebec,” Marie rests her head, watching the dark liquid swirl in its glass.

Rosalie’s body stiffens, small hairs stand on end, “Do you really have to go? Maybe feign sickness or I could convince Elias to come with me and join you,” she squeezes her hand in a vice at each word. “What if you don’t make it back?”

Marie hugs her, “Everything is going to be alright,” giving her soothing rubs to her back. “I’ll come back, no matter what,” she nuzzles her cheek and releases her hold. “Wait, I have something,” slipping off her leather glove, twisting the silver ring off her finger and placing the warm metal in Rosalie’s gloved hand.

A series of curls contort the band and embedded in the flat round surface, a deep vivid crimson ruby embedded in the center with a great star etched in the metal. Her eyes widened, a hand over her mouth and lightly shook her head.

“Your mother, your grandmother…” her thoughts barely keeping pace with her mouth. “I simply can–” a finger stops her lips, only bird songs and gentle breezes fill the silent air.

“I wouldn’t have offered it, if I didn’t bring it up,” she assures her, “Go on, I want to see,”

Rosalie takes off her glove, placing the silver ring on her right ring finger. Despite being a little snug around the digit, the band still fits. Marie takes her hand, admiring the ring’s placement and traces her thumb along the star.

Her heart beating loud in her chest, her hand pulls back and rifles through her basket. “It is considered bad luck to give a present before one’s birthday. But for you, I’ll make an exception just this once.” Rosalie pulls out a small black box.

She pries the tight lid and lets out a sharp gasp at the sight, an oval brooch depicting maroon roses and forget-me-nots in an onyx background, while golden curves encircle the stone’s edge. Replacing the ivory rose brooch with the new one on the high neck ruffles of her blouse. Marie takes out her compact mirror from the silken handbag, eyes dancing with glee and fingers tracing the edge, “Soleil, Je ne sais pas quoi dire,”

“Not a single word, your happiness is enough,” placing her hand on Marie’s jaw and thumb brushes her cheek.

***

Marie stands outside the entrance, staring at the sky dyed orangish-red as the light grows dim, while her fingers trace the embroidered sparrows on her silk reticule. Rosalie emerges with the basket hanging on her arm and nudges her head towards the forest. The ladies bid their stone hideaway ado, crickets start playing their evening tune and owls fly overhead searching for delicious morsels.

They stop in front of a babbling creek with stones poking out the water’s surface. The young redhead reels back and sprints, hopping at the last minute over the freshwater, almost fumbling her landing, but stands proud of her accomplishment. Marie smiles and shakes her head and steps on the rocks, deliberately placing one foot over the other while maintaining stability. She makes it to the other side without a problem, Rosalie gives her a smirk before joining their hands together and resume their jaunt.

“If only the day could last just a little longer,” occasionally looking up at the twilit sky.

“The feeling is mutual mein Sternenlicht.” She sighs, glancing at her feet as she hops over a puddle. “If we didn’t have our responsibilities or eyes breathing down our necks, then we could… we could…” she stops herself, fingers grazing her throat.

“Could what?” Marie looks at her and raises an eyebrow.

Heat courses through her body and bites her fingers, all the while her mind scrambles for the right words or even divert the topic. “Oh, we’re almost there!” she points to a small dark dot in the distance.

The dark shape morphs into something familiar; a grand Victorian manor with wooden sidings painted blue and white accents, black rooves and red bricked chimneys. A couple of men stand on the back porch moving their arms, surrounded by smoke. Rosalie and Marie immediately let go of each other’s hands and put some distance between them. The young gentlemen chatted and laughed away, enjoying each other’s company while blowing smoke from their cigars. One of them spots their wife, waving at them before notifying his friend and going down the back porch steps together.

“Ladies, welcome back to civilization! How was your little jaunt into nature?” Lawrence cheerfully asks.

“It was rather lovely. So many wondrous sights, almost like walking into a living painting!”

“I almost wish we had brought a camera and captured its untamed beauty,” Rosalie rested her hand on her cheek, looking back at the wilderness.

“Maybe someday we could all take a little nature walk of our own,” Elias attempts to match Lawrence’s energy, even giving a little chuckle and nudging him in the ribs.

“Darling, what’s that? What happened to your other broach?” Craning his head and pointing at her new brooch.

Marie explains her early birthday present and her fondness, then mentions their upcoming trip. “I’m sure you told Mr. Winsloe about this trip?”

“Of course, as much as it pains me. But a necessary one,” his dark brown eyes looking at Elias, rubbing his thumb on his shoulder.

“I really wish you didn’t have to go,” her red brows wrinkle and her face written in pain.

“You needn't worry Mrs. Winsloe, we’ll only be there for two months. You know how families are,” Lawrence assures her, yet his voice wavers.

“Of course,” straining her smile and eyes crinkle.

“Shall we go, my dear? Little Aloyse misses us terribly,” he holds a hand out to his beloved wife and departs in their carriage.

***

Once a week they read each other's letters in private, write their responses, and then send them away. Rosalie read letters about her travels, the country’s foods, and potential inspiration for her writing; occasionally she got pressed flowers, regional recipes, and her poems finding their way in the envelope. Her poems were filled with the coming Autumn and sweet yearning. Sometimes, she flips paper over away from the Frenchwoman’s words, becoming overwhelmed and using a folding fan on herself. Meanwhile, Marie read letters about her color progression, the twins' antics, and recent hunts; while full sketches, feather plumes, and floral perfume would periodically make their way. Her cheeks redden from the trinkets, leading her to take short nature walks to collect her senses.

From time to time, they traded stories of curious happenings of the previous week. Marie and her husband met an old man in his 60s sporting a long white beard, saying he hadn’t worn shoes for over 40 years since the election and his secret towards living a long life before bidding them farewell. Lawrence comments that he was Canada’s welcoming committee and both had a good chuckle. Rosalie weaves a yarn about a doctor practicing hypnosis, using his unique technique on one of his patients but accidentally hypnotizes himself into a croaking frog, even hopping around the hospital while staff try to catch him. They both burst into hysterical laughter at the other's letter, and relaying their odd stories became difficult.

Another month progressed- Marie’s letters stopped coming, only Rosalie’s own letters came back in the mail. She assures herself that Marie was probably busy with family affairs or simple forgetfulness, resuming her usual tasks, telling herself, “Everything is going to be fine, she’ll come back. She promised!”

Voices whispered in her ear of doubts, regrets, and her demise. She tries to ignore those deceitful demons, but with each passing day they grew louder and louder. Every night they haunt her sleeping thoughts. Marie turning to dust, never confessing her true feelings, or running off with another person and wearing a wicked grin on her face. She covers her ears with her hands or plugs them with bee’s wax, even writing letters to her, yet never sending them. Those awful voices always pestering like loathsome flies orbiting around a horse.

***

A week later…

Rosalie reads a collection of poetry from the far east, briefly glancing at the twins playing with their cream grey rabbit, meanwhile Elias looks over financial papers and business accounts. A slow and seemingly endless knock perks his ears, he quickly lays down the papers and heads for the door. Shortly after, he calls his wife and the children over. When they reach the front door, her husband wears a grim look in his grey eyes. Outside the threshold was Lawrence sharing a similar somber look and holding Marie’s reticule, green silk stained with dirt and clods clinging to the embroidered sparrows. Resting on the soiled handbag was a dark-haired infant swaddled in a soft pink blanket, peering at them with dark eyes and stout cheeks.

“I’m afraid she’s… she’s…” Lawrence spoke meekly, as if completing the next words could bring about a curse.

“She’s what?”

He averts his eyes away from Rosalie and her children. The silence was thick and almost suffocating, a great shadow looming over everyone and seeping into their souls. Elias opens his mouth but Lawrence stops him. He musters enough courage to whisper in her ear.

“Hahaha, surely you jest? She’s back at your house resting in bed,” she laughs nervously as tears form in her green eyes and nails dig into her chest, muttering, “No,” over and over. Her breathing becomes heavy and frantic, while her eyes lose focus on the world. A lump lodged in her throat with tears on the verge of breaking at any moment.

Something pushes through her gullet and threatens to spill out. The humid air fills her lungs to their full capacity, almost on the verge of bursting out of its sack. She releases an almost banshee-like shriek, scaring the wildlife out of their homes and piercing the heavens as dark tears stain her face. The husbands and their children all covered their ears from the deafening cry, while the baby boy cried in the same pitch as her.

***

Twenty-three people attend her funeral, family and friends singing their mournful tune as the pastor recites the funeral rites. Numerous flowers rest atop the closed rosewood casket. Only the immediate family and a few close friends knew it was nothing more than an empty wooden box buried six feet away from the living. Elias glances at his wife’s crumpled form, he reaches for her shoulder but stops halfway and rests his hand to his lap. Rosalie turns away as gravediggers feed the gaping Earth with dirt. So many things she wanted to say to her, even make one last confession or a farewell. But all those silent words weighed heavy in her heart.

In loving memory of Marie Bonheur

Beloved Wife, Sister, and Friend

187X - 189X

Though another life may part, the sand continues to flow without delay. Everyone returns to their familiar routine, almost as if the dark event was just a distant memory blurring at the edges. But time doesn't heal wounds; they molder in the soul even when the flesh remains pristine, haunting their waking thoughts until they meet under the wings of Thanatos. One day Victor and Vivian were going into the pen to play with Aster hiding amongst the sea of colors and patterns, but their furry friend was nowhere to be found within its enclosure. They bring their mother with them and investigate the forest, Rosalie making sure the twins never stray too far out of view.

Hours had passed, their bodies drenched in sweat and hair becoming frizzy from the humidity. There was no sign of the rabbit, yet the twins still held hope that their furry friend was alive and well. Vivian moves her head, scanning the area for the smallest movement, even just a hint would be more than enough. At that moment a small high-pitched scream breaks the tranquil silence. Both mother and son jumped a little, their heads instantly whipping to the young girl, her head turned away and sobbing. They turn towards the source of her sorrow, Aster lying on the ground with its insides spilt out like worms. The beetles feast on fresh flesh, whilst hundreds of flies weave through soft cream grey fur dyed red. Crows peck and fight with scavengers twice their size, the rabbit’s size was of no concern as long as they get their delicious yet putrid meal. The entire scene was a revolting assault on the senses and the twins began to retch.

Rosalie should feel sad at the sight or cringe at the nauseous smell, but only a cruel stone face was in its place. Her hands snatch the twins by their back neck in an iron grip, never allowing them to look away, coldly stating, “Never get attached to creatures with such brief lives, not even your father or me.” All three continue to stare at the fetid body and the gluttonous creatures until Victor and Vivian tears became dry and their feelings all but spent before heading back into their warm abode.

The family awaits at the dinner table as the maids bring out their latest meal. An exquisite meal consisting of rouladen drizzled in gravy with spätzle to the side, along with braised red cabbage and a glass of apple juice. The smell fills the dining room with its appetizing scent fresh from the kitchen. Elias savors the excellent dish while the twins only stare at the cooked meat but eventually force themselves to eat their food. Rosalie took slow small bites and little mouse-like sips. The natural act twisted into a grueling chore, but she carried on the facade and complimented the chef. The white pages once filled with beauty and its people were corrupted by macabre imagery: Death dancing with a fine gentleman in a ballroom, a knight on horseback following a woman holding an hourglass surrounded by soap bubbles, and forget-me-nots growing out of the eyes and mouth of a pained woman. She even recreated one of her sketches on canvas using oil paints, a young maiden sleeping in a field of red poppies being cradled by her lover, as butterflies hid her eyes. Every so often servants, her husband, and children would steal a glance outside her private study with unease and repulsion yet utter fascination, almost captivated by the display. She’s aware of the many eyes on her back, anger simmering within her, ready to soak their skins with searing water at any moment. But she knew that release would be a waste of energy and leave her drained, and the incident spread over the town like a plague. She diverts that fiery beast onto the white canvas and turns the other cheek from their whispering comments.

On days when no soul was present, Rosalie occasionally went to the living room to gaze upon the mounted rifle above the fireplace. She steps on a stool, hands pulling towards the gun. All this pain and suffering her heart had endured would end in an instance, never wondering where she’ll go beyond the veil… until a small glint of light catches her eye, a silver ring. An image forms, her limp body being hugged by Marie and buried in her shoulder, the blood mixed with her tears. She wrenched her hand away from the gunmetal barrel and collapsed to the ground, her body curling and nuzzling the ring.

“This isn’t what you wanted!” She kisses the stone, feeling the warm metal on her lips.

***

Late one night, Rosalie cried in silence beneath the blankets praying, knowing they would never answer. In her dream, she lies atop a bed of daisies, her body forms in a fetal position in the rosewood casket enveloped in a black abyss. Light cracks through the dark enclosure, a warm hand giving her cheek soothing rubs.

“That isn’t a comfortable bed, mon Soleil.”

Quickly, she rises up to find Marie in her last outfit; a dark green skirt with a black stretching round near the hem and an open jacket to match. A brimmed hat with a slight upturned bent on one side sits atop her head, and two full sparrows nestled amongst the ribbons. Despite everything, she still retains that sweet gentle smile and offers her a hand. Rosalie accepts the gesture, guiding her out of the dreary bed and holds Marie’s soft form.

“What took so long?” Her hands tremble, brushing stray hairs away from ocean eyes. “I-I thought you… everyone thought you… you-” a finger silences her.

“The train was running a little late, but that’s all in the past. What matters is us, finally together,” Marie rests her head on Rosalie's beating chest, eyes closed and arms wrapped around her waist, “Forever.”

She rests a hand in soft inky hair and the other wrapped around her shoulder. The warmth enveloping them in a blanket, not too cold for another layer but not too hot to be drenched in sweat.

Stay in this sweet dream in each other’s company; never let each other go.

Rosalie lets out a pained gasp and tightens her grip around Marie, almost like lightning struck her heart. She screams at the top of her lungs even if she becomes mute or tastes her own blood, but no sound comes out. Paralysis overtakes her body and her grip slips from their hold, as if a demon was mounted upon her chest, a mere captive in her own body. A tear rolls down into her ear and lips morph from agonizing pain to drowning in warm bliss.

The neck tenses and shakes under the iron weight of her head. Despite her efforts to maintain its position, the cranium falls back and dangles in the air. A gritty hand slides into the back of her hair meeting each other’s gaze. Marie’s attire, now covered in clumps of filth and insects skitter in and out of disheveled hair. Her skin showing partially exposed bones and muscles along the back hand, while her cheek exposed pearly white teeth and an eye missing from its socket as squirming larvae made their home in the dark crevices.

Marie lowers her body onto her lap, cradling the young lady like a grown cat, while stroking her crimson hair, and smiles, “Everything is going to be alright.” Her saccharine voice coils around Rosalie’s dazed mind. She leans close to her ear, whispering, “Attendez-moi, mon Soleil.”

Rosalie screams, quickly unbuttoning her night dress and feeling her chest for any visible mark, but no such thing was ever there. Her husband jolts out of bed, heart beating frantically out of his chest. He rushes to his wife’s side and grabs her shoulders in a tight grip, pulling her face to his scowling eyes.

“For God’s sake, Rosalie! This is the sixth time this month,” his voice becomes irritated. “I’ll go grey before thirty! If this persist ANY further, you’re spending the rest of your miserable life with your dear sister in a nice comfy rubber room,”

“NO, PLEASE! It won’t happen again, I promise!”

(Knock… knock…)

Their head turns to a door being opened, slowly revealing their tired son. “What’s going on?” Victor yawns, while rubbing his eyes.

"Is mama alright?" Vivian’s hand wrapped around the doorknob, just as tired as her brother.

“Your mother was having a nightmare. Isn’t that right dear,” Elias assures them, his hand giving a harsh squeeze on Rosalie’s shoulder.

She almost winces from the touch and stares at the twins, her husband wearing a stern look, “Of course! But you two needn’t hear these awful tales, especially when it's past your bedtime.” She tries not to choke, “Come now, the Sandman doesn’t like children staying up past their bedtime.”

They guide the twins back to their room and tucked them into bed, their mother giving them a quick peck on the head. The couple retreat back to their own room as well, Elias guiding his wife to her bed with a vase of lavender sitting on the end table.

He looks at his wife with tired eyes, softly saying, “I understand your plight, but you can’t keep torturing yourself like this.” He rested his hand on her shoulder, “What would happen if you break into hysterics at next week’s party or in front of our kids? God forbid, my mother or your father saw you like this. We would be setting a bad example for us. Do you think Marie would want to see you like this?” He pinches the skin between his eyes, “I wouldn’t be able to see Lawrence again,”

A tightness forms in her chest and tears trickle down to know no end. She tries to speak but only sobbing gasps come out - the script remains trapped - a prisoner confined to her mind, only nodding in response. He hugs his weeping wife and pats her. Elias retreats to his bed across from her and falls asleep, letting out gentle snores. Eventually Rosalie stops crying and wraps her body in a blanket, eyes growing heavy from warmth.

“Bitte kommen Sie wieder,” softly murmuring before being overtaken by the deep embrace of sleep.