Blood Rose

  BLOOD ROSE

  The Blood Saga

  Written by

  Jacquelynn Gagne

  Copyright © 2013 Jacquelynn Gagne

  All rights reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  Published by Midnight Hour Publishing.

  London, OH 43140

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Cover design by Ambrosia Arts

  Edited by Ambrosia Arts

  Acknowledgments

  Many people throughout my life have helped get me where I am today. All were a blessing even if at that time I would have declared otherwise. To those of you that helped push me up this ladder, I cannot thank you enough. You know who you are. To my husband who has stood by me through the thick and the thin, the crazy and the wild, I could not do this without you. You are my light in the darkness and my strength when I am weak. You hold me up when I feel that I cannot take another step. You are my guardian. You have the nerve to push me when I need a hard shove and the tenderness to ease the hardest of blows when others try to drag me down.

  Saying I love you will never be enough for me to show how much I care but it is all that you ask of me.

  Olive Juice

  Blood Rose

  I hear downpours of rain,

  Fallen vigorously to the ground.

  Surge flashes of lightning,

  Glaring bright into my eyes.

  Merciless strikes of thunder,

  Creating vile quivers.

  Behind it all imprints,

  Images in my head,

  Of a blood rose.

  Your touches feel so vain,

  But with you, my heart and soul is bound.

  Deceit so frightening,

  When I decode truth from lies.

  Gloomy thoughts make me sunder,

  Forcing me with shivers.

  Behind it all reprints,

  Images in my head,

  Of a blood rose.

  These dreams induce such pain,

  Met myself in a burial ground.

  The danger heightening,

  Is it my time to demise?

  Evil thoughts take me under,

  Shreds my heart to slivers.

  Behind it all gives hints,

  Images in my head,

  Of a blood rose.

  By

  Sarahi Hannah Estephani

  PRELUDE

  Death doesn’t always want your eternal sleep. Sometimes Death just wants your eternity.

  The sky was painted midnight with no moon. Unreal with wisps of clouds whispered across the horizon bright with stars. On the edge of a cliff, I stand in a dense eerie fog that blankets the ground with my back to a thick wall of lush woods. Trees draped in willowy vines held leaves too large for their delicate branches. Palms entangled by ivy so rich and dark it hints blue as it creeps from the jungle forestry all the way down the cliff to the jagged rocks below. Black water sprays white froth with every billowing wave against the glistening rocks amongst the break of the surf. The waves sprang up reaching to grab me from the towering cliff. Trembling I stood. My body throbbed in pain. Blood covered my hands and feet. A ghastly scream echoes across the seascape for only a moment before it is abruptly cut short. Seconds pass before I hear rustling from behind. Something running for me. Death was coming for me. My chest ached from the strain of my racing heart. Stepping closer to the edge, I turn to look into the trees. Straining to see what was out there in the night. Another step and I fall from the edge of the cliff to the awaiting rocks and dark water below.

  There was no scream. I had jumped.

  My body jerks awake violently the moment I hit the water. The moment my mind took realization to the agony of death. Every dream. Every night. Nightmare after nightmare I remember vividly. Magic spinning into a world of death and pain. Oh yes, even magic can be quite frightening. They’re complicated. Just dreams though. Right?

  I

  “SWEET SLEEP”

  I’ve never slept much because to sleep means to dream. Some people say if you die in your dreams, then you die in real life. If that’s true then I must be a ghost.

  The dreams were more than just vivid. They were real to me or her, whoever she is. As if I was living in two different worlds leading two entirely different lives each day and every night.

  When I was a child she was a child. As I grew, she grew. Our worlds were nothing alike. Her world was one of beauty and magic. Filled with vibrant colors more exotic than a Brazilian rain forest. There were even fairies...

  The entire place was pure magic in its most beautiful form. But, for every wonderful thing in the world, (and other worlds too I suppose) there are things just as horrible to counter the beauty. They call this the balance of life- Yin and yang so to speak. To me it’s just Hell.

  Upon waking, I laid there staring at the glowing green numbers from the clock, counting to myself. Soft as a whisper, I count the seconds from the time the clock read four o’ one a.m. to four thirteen a.m. Letting out a long disappointed sigh and squeezing my eyes shut, I know the last I looked at that clock was just three hours before. For the millionth time I wondered how many seconds does it take to make the pain of death go away? Even though it wasn’t I who had died, they did. That was always just as painful if not more so.

  For the last many years, I have been forced to watch and suffer the death of her people. It is our curse. Each and every one torturous, horrifying deaths. Some worse than others. The so called lucky ones manage to end their suffering on their own terms. Most do not.

  Each death I am bound to watch through their eyes. Destined to feel their pain. No matter how she tries to fight. No matter how she tries to save them. She is cursed to watch and to feel every bit of their pain mental and physical alike. I am bound to this same fate for I am bound to her. We are helpless from saving them. Old mothers. Young children. Entire families. It didn’t matter. None were spared.

  Despite the moderately warm humid weather of late May, the sheets were cool from the breeze coming in through the open window. It was ghostly the way the sheer plain white curtains bellowed from the breeze.

  The only sound to be heard was a low howl of wind. No birds or owls. Nothing. Not even a stray dog barking or the sound of traffic and people from the city streets below. The night was holding its breath, just before the break of dawn.

  Stiff and slow, I pulled my legs out from the sheets, letting my feet touch to the cold, scarred wooden floor. Fresh scratches and smears of blood and dirt stung my legs horribly. It looked as if I truly had been running barefoot through the woods.

  This was a physical reminder of my dream. This too happened every night or something similar to it anyways. Cuts, mud or dirt sometimes, though always blood.

  It’s okay. Even the cuts healed within a few hours. They vanished as if they were no more real than the dreams. Impossible right? You would think so.

  Moving over to the open window, I leaned out in to the dank night air to see the quiet city. The place was Vermont, in a town called Burlington. Burlington is the largest city in the state of Vermont and the shire town Chittenden County. It’s been my home since birth. With my luck, I’ll die here too.

  My hometown is also the birthplace of Ben & Jerry’s, which was sounding like a promising breakfast option as I looked out the window at one of their infamous ice cream shops. Aggravated because my sweet tooth would have to wait, I let out a heavy sigh. They didn’t open u
ntil eleven. Everything should be twenty-four hours in my opinion. After all, I am. “Damn it.”

  Burlington’s a big city but we refuse to acknowledge that. Most of the traffic is on the sidewalks or out by the docks. For example, I have a license but I’ve never owned a car.

  Vermont’s also well known for the rain. I’ve always loved the rain. It was clear that night but from the humidity, I could tell it would be raining by noon. After a few moments of window gazing it was time to move on and start the morning as usual.

  Walking over to the white fifty’s model refrigerator, I opened it up to get my so-called breakfast. Squinting from the sudden blaring light from the refrigerator, I groaned in annoyance.

  There’s nothing more inside but six bottles of Fiji water on the bottom shelf, fifteen cans of Red Bull on the top shelf and one mostly empty container of old Chinese. I grabbed it up, opened. Sniffed. Chucked it in the trash.

  Snagging a Red Bull off the top shelf, I used my foot to shut the heavy door as I turned away. Living alone and working in a restaurant meant that I didn’t have much need to stock up on groceries. When I did, it was usually my friends that ate them anyways. So why bother?

  Rarely did I keep lights on in my house. They gave me headaches. The dark was normal for me. I liked it. Probably more than most people do or should for that matter.

  Still groggy, my eyes began playing tricks on my fuzzy mind. The dancing shadows on the walls cast from the dull light of the open window nearly looked human. Rubbing my eyes, I looked again but the image was gone. I was left with only a disturbing chill in the room and the strangest feeling of being utterly alone. Whilst shaking my head, I rolled my eyes feeling ridiculous. “Of course I’m alone. No one else lives here.”

  “Music. I need music.” Mumbling to myself as I often tend to do, I quickly moved to turn the radio on as my phone rang. Scowling at the ringing intruder, I abandoned the radio to answer the phone. Red Bull still in hand I cringed upon seeing the name on the screen of the cell. Paul. I had promised to go see him at work that night. Crap. “I know, I forgot. I’m sorry!” I answered abruptly, stretching “sorry” out for a few extra syllables. It shouldn’t have been a surprise really. No one else would have called me this early. Most people were asleep after all. Then again, there were only a small handful of people that ever called me anyway.

  Paul Davis was a close friend of mine. Or maybe a more accurate description is Paul was one of those people you meet which never go away so they become permanently embedded into your life. Everyone has at least one. They grow on you. We had known each other since we were kids.

  Over a year ago, we had dated for a period of three months before we decided that was a silly idea to start with or I did rather. There was nothing romantic there. At least not in my opinion. There were a few people that did not agree of course. Paul was one of them unfortunately but we had remained friends.

  “It’s all right. I didn’t expect you to show anyway. What’re you doin’?”Paul talks like he’s from the Bronx when he’s lived here in Vermont all his life. That night Paul had started a job at a local nightclub. It’s true that I hated bars but I hadn’t blown him off. That frustrating subconscious had just conveniently forgotten.

  Yawning heavily as I rubbed my eyes, I responded. My mind supplied the appropriate responses, “Did you have fun at work?”

  “I can make all sorts of drinks with dirty names now.” I could practically hear the perverted grin even over the phone. “You know, since you bailed on me now you gotta come eat breakfast.” Ah, a ploy. My eyes narrowed.

  He won. I sighed. “It’s gonna take a lot more than you to get me outta the house this early. Just come over.” It was a personal goal of mine to not leave the house before ten. He knew this.

  “Alright, alright. I’ll see ya in a bit. I’m bringing food.” He sighed exaggeratedly with a blend of expected disappointment and mild agitation. With nothing more said we both hung up.

  The crisp sound of opening the Red Bull made me smile. Pausing, I let myself take a moment to breathe in the sweet smell before taking a good long drink. “Time to get dressed then.” Yes, I talk to myself a lot. Heh. Just be glad you’re not really in my head. That can get a little twisted.

  On the way to the closet, my reflection caught in the full length mirror that was poorly tacked to the wall near the bed. It had been left there by the previous tenants. The mirror was miraculously held on to the brick and mortar wall with bent nails. It bore a raw edge that I had cut myself on more than once. Being accident prone, sharp glass in my proximity should really have a frame or something. Paul had said he would fix it but I wouldn’t let him for a world of different reasons.

  The girl staring back at me was nineteen years old, standing at five-foot-four. She was thin with very pale skin the sun did not phase with more than a burn now and then and a slew of freckles across her shoulders and arms alone. Not a monster by any means. Just plain. The cuts were gone already. Good.

  Neither thin nor curvy, I had clear skin but my complexion has always been dull and lifeless. Nose and lips were all very average. Eyes of stone grey had no real color at all aside the blue and purple circles under them from a lifetime of ill sleep. That’s what they invented makeup for I figure.

  My hand ran up from my black underwear clad hips to pull up my grey tank, exposing the thorn vines of black roses and the dragonfly tattoo covering the left side of my ribs from hip bone to breast. I’d been thinking of adding to it or getting another. Decisions decisions. For me, tattoos are more than just a piece of art work. They are an expression of yourself, a visual extension of your soul.

  While caught in trance by the ghostly reflection, a sudden gust of wind ripped through the room chilling me to the bone. It sent a shiver up my spine that made the hair on my arms raise and tingle, giving me goose bumps from head to toe.

  Panic stricken nerves held me in place for countless seconds. I held my breath as if anticipating something horrible to come. After a long moment something seemed to click inside of me and like a spell breaking, I was able to move again.

  I checked the window to find the chilling breeze from the moment before was gone. Despite the early hour, the air was actually quite warm. The breeze brought up the scent of the city. Wet brick and concrete. Moist soil and fresh cut grass from someone mowing the day before. The smell of the ocean and docks from a few miles away drifted faint on the wind. Water and fresh fish. I loved those smells. It was home.

  Humidity from the fog bellow clung to my skin as my head hung out the window. My eyes closed as I instantly dismissed the squirming discomfort in my stomach to let a peaceful moment completely absorb me.

  What a mistake.

  While enjoying the quiet warmth of the night, the stereo came to life blaring Nickelback’s “I’d Come For You” at the highest volume setting. Shrieking, I jumped in shock. The panic ripping through me felt like my skin had tried to leave before the rest of my body could catch up. My head slammed up into the window. Hitting hard enough the window rattled the sill. A flush of heat filled my skull and left my head pounding like a jackhammer. “Ow! Son of a-!” The increasing shock of pain stole the curse right out of my lips.

  A can of Red Bull lay on the floor at my feet now forgotten- glugging out the contents onto the old wooden floor as it rolled back and forth idly. Eyes watering from the sudden stinging pain, I wiped the tears away as they splashed down my cheeks. Spinning around staggering away from the window and over to the bed, I went for the only weapon in the house.

  It wasn’t me that turned it on! Had to be someone though, right?

  In the corner between the bed and the nightstand was an old Louisville slugger my brother had given me from his glory days in high school. Grabbing it up, I looked more like a drunk with a misshapen cane than a pro ball player. Holding my head with the other hand as it pounded internally to the music, my hair felt wet. I was bleeding. Terrific.

  The stereo was blasting louder than I remember having i
t set to. Or maybe it was the mild concussion making my ears ring with sensitivity. Luckily having no surrounding neighbors, there was no one to disturb. The loft was above an empty storefront. It had been empty for a couple of months. Rent is high downtown for store front lots. I was lucky.

  Clumsy I may have been but inept I was not. If there was someone in my house, I was not the type to willingly go down without a fight. Speaking of going down however, I slipped through the spilled Red Bull at that moment. Landing on my rear and sending a wave of pain up through my tailbone. Mumbling curses, I crawled back to my feet, using the bat to help me stand. It was humiliating even being alone. Was I alone? Would an intruder be laughing if there was one?

  After picking myself up off the floor, I saw my doorknob twisting back and forth forcefully. What I had forgotten though was Paul was on his way over and he also had a key. The door had gone still as I crept up to it along the wall. Just as I came up on the door, it swung open. The bat came up over my head and in multiple short swings I clobbered the door and the assumed intruder.

  Obviously, I did not play sports for a reason. Can you imagine what would have happened if someone had given me a real weapon?

  “Son of a bitch, Anna! What the hell is wrong with you?!” Paul yelled over the music, holding a defensive arm up over his face. Good question but a better one would have been, ‘what isn’t wrong with you?’

  Paul ripped the bat from my hands and tossed it across the room. It bounced twice on my unmade bed. Shocked and guilt ridden, I paused to punch him hard in the shoulder before I threw my arms around his neck. Locked in a state of contradiction, I wanted to beat the crap out of him for scaring me and hug him because I was glad it was Paul and not someone else.

  Grumbling, he wrapped a free arm around my waist. Paul was a sturdy guy though, stout too fortunately. He stumbled back as I threw him off balance. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t know it was you! I thought someone was trying to break in,” my voice trembled sheepishly as the words, raspy with panic, trailed off with the sound of the music.