Dahlia Wellburg hates her misery as much as she loves it. She sees herself as a stone: ordinary and unwanted. Yet, they know her to be a rose: soft, but with thorns.
. . .
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Monet walked closer with unhurried steps, eyes so firmly placed on mine as if they could never move away. He reached the steps which led up to the porch. "What are you doing here?" He asked me.
"This is my uncle's house," I said. He had bought this? "You bought this?"
He gave me a very simple nod as if I wasn't seconds away from screaming.
I ran a hand over my face, trying to gain some sort of composure.
"I know it used to be your uncle's house. I meant to ask - why are you here so late at night? It isn't safe."
I sat down on the steps, not answering him. I glared at his dark shoes which were barely visible in the night. "Why the fuck did you even buy this?" I demanded, looking up at him. I knew my eyes conveyed how furious and...sad I was.
He crouched to look into my eyes. I looked at his scar, tempted to give him another one. I wasn't a violent person. I preferred words. But I did fantasise about hurting people who hurt me.
"It's a nice house. I needed somewhere off the ship to live."
I absolutely hated how composed he was while my hands were shaking with the effort of just...being mine. Sometimes my body shook as if it wanted to be detached from me. As if it wanted to leave me...as if I wanted to leave me.
"Dahlia," he said slowly. "Dahlia...you're shaking."
I sniffled, feeling tears burn in my eyes.
Slowly, as if approaching an injured animal, he touched my hand and pulled me up.
"Can I hug you?" He asked. Now the firmness of his words, somehow, helped with trying to compose myself. I gave him a jerky nod and he pulled me into his arms, his hard body was a wall against the waves. His heartbeat, which seemed to be a bit faster than normal, was like a lullaby. It reminded me of how I'd look at the stars mom had painted on the ceiling of my bedroom at home when I was tired. How they'd blur and for a moment become real stars - just a million times more magical.
He rubbed my back and soon enough my body stopped shaking.
"Do you want it back?" He asked. "You can have it. I can get it done in an hour."
"I don't have that much money," I whispered into his chest.
"Fuck the money, Dahlia. Do you want it back?"
Tears slipped out of my eyes. Dad would be mad. You don't take things for free. I shook my head. "N0. You bought it. It's yours. Dad said I could take some stuff. Can I do that now?"
He pulled back and brushed a few tears away from my face. "Of course. Take whatever you want."
. . .
Monet was sitting on a chair, watching me as I pulled books out of the bookshelves as he drank some brown liquid from a glass. Two other men had come with him. They were pulling furniture out of the house. It was obvious that he was going to remodel the house. The furniture would get shipped off to my father, who'd probably sell it. I actually liked the fact that he was going to change things.
