Black Rose

Another Girl.

Trigger warning: chapter contains references to suicide

I expected Blake to walk through the door, but instead, it was the girl. The woman he called Iris.

She was carrying a small bowl of water, a washcloth, and what looked like a bottle of disinfectant.  She gently placed them beside the bed before kneeling on the floor next to them, and proceeding to unwrap the sheets from my bare skin. I tried to protest, worried that she would see my naked skin underneath, but my throat was so sore that all that passed my lips was a small croak. She hushed me, trying hard to avoid looking at my bare body, and almost in an act of affection, she placed her cool hand on my forehead, brushing my fringe from my eyes.

"Don't try to talk, love. Your throat will need a few days to recover. I want to take a look at your back. Do you think you can roll over for me?" She said, her voice gentle and calm.

I hesitated, but nodded ever so slightly before wincing and shifting so I was on my side. Whether she is shocked or scared at the welts covering my back, she doesn't give away, but after a few moments, I felt her gently wipe at the damaged skin with the wet cloth. I bit my lip to kept myself from whimpering, but she still noticed my discomfort, and in her soothing voice, she told me, "This will only take a little bit, then you can rest again. I wish I could get you some painkillers or some sleeping pills but master says he doesn't want you taking anything. Whatever you did, you really annoyed him, Rose. He only ever beats me like this when I have done something really bad."

My heart started pounding. Master? Beatings? I had for some reason thought that this woman, Iris, was his accomplice, that they were on even ground. Yet from the way she was talking, it sounded as if she was nothing more than I was to him. Some kind of slave that he can do what he wants with.

Who was this man?

Iris' voice broke my thoughts, and she muttered, "This might sting a little."

Then I could feel the washer on my skin again, accompanied by a searing pain. I let out a sharp cry, and she hushed me once more, gently wiping at my wounds.

"I'm sorry he did this to you. I should have intervened, and tried to calm him down. I'm sorry." She said, and I knew she was being sincere. The guilt in her voice telling enough.

Again, I stayed silent, not knowing if I could forgive her. She let out a sigh and drew the washer away.

After a few moments of silence, I spoke, my voice barely a whisper.

"My name is Ophelia."

She didn't respond, and I felt the washer return to my skin, stinging as she cleaned my wounds. Wondering if she even heard me, I spoke up, mustering all my strength.

"My name isn't Rose. My name is Ophelia."

She stopped dabbing at my back and let out a long sigh. I shifted so I could see her, only to find she was staring down at me with a strange expression playing across her features.

Then, she said quietly, "I know."

I frowned, confused. I was about to ask more questions when she took a shaky breath and continued.

"Before you, there was another girl. He called her... Lily but she told me her name was... Amelie. But she wasn't happy here. One day, she tried to run away, and he found her. He brought her back, and beat her until she was near death. But he didn't kill her. He coaxed her back to health, and when she had recovered, she was never the same. She was the shell of the person she once was. He broke her."

A tear slipped down her face, her lip trembling. There was obviously more to the story, but she has stopped talking, overcome with emotion. Softly, in a careful voice, I asked, "What happened to her?"