Rose

(Substance abuse, physical violence/abuse, homophobia, mental health)

The needle kisses my arm, rough and deep, a rush like no other. I lean back onto the harsh cradle of the tatami, ache fading into something smooth and hazy.

I didn’t do it before, powered by lentil bisque and two hours’ sleep—write, write more, and repeat, until I couldn’t.

A light breeze wafts the attar of peonies and lilacs, sharp and lovely. Acorns crack under my heel. The slate blue bungalow comes into view. A pair of apron-clad women loiter near the entrance, squeaky-wheeled wagons piled high with small appliances, sanitized and bright. Their charges line the walkway, eyes downcast, joyless.

The whoosh of the door snaps us to attention. An uniformed aide brandishes a laminated goldenrod number card. “Serving 30, please.” Her bell-clear voice reminds me of the stream just outside the window of my childhood bedroom, an alarm and a lullaby.

I follow her trail of floral sweetness. She settles behind the gleaming antiseptic counter. Framed posters adorn the light cyan walls, motivational crap in the background of ancient magazine layouts, “Work is Freedom”, and “Industry is Love.”

“Wow, that looks full. Are you late with this?”

I smooth the sleeve of my jacket over a scar. “Sorry, yes. But it’s fresh, and complete. Ready for distribution.”

The corners of her lips twitch upward. “Let’s see about this, then.” She disappears into the backroom, basket on her wide hip.

If Inspection finds one missed stitch and demands a redo, there’s a reduction and another warning. I mop my hairline and hope the Lead is too busy to look closely, unlike last time.

The knuckles on my right hand jump, and I press my hands on the marble, cool and quenching.

When she reappears, a new king-size basket held high, my heart slows to a jog.

“Thank you for your service.” She hands me a receipt, and my palm tingles under the brush of her fingertip. “They’re prepping for some Admin muckety-muck due next week.”

A heartfelt thanks plays on my cracked lips, but she opens the box to pull another card before I can speak or ask her name.

My back hits the door, aching from the weight atop my head. Here goes nothing.

“I’m Sam. Thanks so much whatever you said back there. I truly appreciate it.”

“No need for that, Sam.” She brushes light brown strands from her cheek and winks. A chill races down my spine. “It was my pleasure. I’m Rose. See you next time.”

Even the load seems lighter as I make my way through the woods.

****

Halfway through an impossible loop, I upend the basket, strewing garments at my feet. A slim hardcover clatters onto the floor. My fingers skim the yellowed onionskin pages, brittle like fallen autumn leaves.

Then I feel it.

The edge of a receipt peeks from between the table of contents and dedication pages. I trace her script, as soft and provocative as her pillowy pout: I hope you enjoy this, but maybe not the other.

I unstick the vial, encased in a plastic sleeve, from the back cover. The light from the window renders my drug of choice a stunning kaleidoscope, a disaster dressed up in gem-like beauty.

I set it aside to swab wetness from my cheek. I select a crewneck from the pile, plying lavender threads until the hole in the seam is rewoven. When the cramping takes hold again. Another dose too soon might leave me unable to finish. One more missed deadline will land me in lockup. I find a half-empty ballpoint for a slightly less taxing task: Thanks for this, and I’ll try.

Maybe I will.

****

A few mornings later, pain coursing through faster than a rain-swollen river, I check the folds and stacks, crisp and pristine, then head out.

The walk isn’t shorter, but it’s sweeter. Twittering birds agree as they usher me to my destination.

Rose is dewy and resplendent, golden brown braid tied with a pink ribbon cascading onto her bare shoulder. I push the book behind the emptied basket. My heart ticks up when she quirks a brow, a question in her honey-hazel gaze.

“Meet me later.” Her minty whisper pricks up the hairs on my arm.

When we do, under the forgiving shade of a cottonwood where she’s spread a blossom-scented sky blue blanket, she leans close. “Tell me what you liked about it.”

I trace a path along the hem of her skirt. “It makes me to use my voice again.”

A crinkle ruffles the space between her brows. “Maybe we’re not meant to change things, Sam.”

“Do you really believe that? They changed everything, with lies until truth was forgotten.”

“What happens if it costs you everything, babe?” She clasps my wrist, and I kiss her hand.

“I have to try, Rosie.”

We meet during her breaks and a few nights when she can sneak away before curfew. I live for her treats—a cinnamon-honey teabag, a battered silver fountain pen, a leather-bound journal, missing only a few pages. If she’s traded for them, I never ask, and try not to imagine the currency for such exchanges.

My gifts are smaller. A poem I wrote for a competition in 6th grade. A star woven with scraps of pink and yellow thread. A bouquet of wildflowers.

Other times we hold each other, words unsaid yet deafening. Stop using. Give this up. Save yourself. Stay Forever. Thank you for being you.

****

The nights are colder, ache in my back and hands, fierce and unending. I microdose now, to avoid Rose’s eyes, brimming with fear and even pity. I want to rip out every faulty nerve and tendon, like a misplaced stitch.

I add another log and replace the tarnished flame cover. She hands me my latest monograph for the Underground. “It’s great, no changes. But no one will do this, Sam. They’re afraid, beaten down.”

“It's a start.”

“Refuse to labor? These demands, it’s too much sacrifice. Impossible.” She pulls the blanket over us, and I shiver at the brush of her breast against mine.

“If one makes a sacrifice, another will follow, it’s inevitable.”

Rose presses her lips to my neck. “Too dangerous. There are eyes everywhere, but we ca—”

A horn sounds, a piercing scream. When the boots thump outside the door, we dress and interwine our hands.

Words punch through the air. Guilty. Prohibited. Confinement.

The armor-clad specter drags Rose through the door, legs kicking, hands outstretched.

Another guard hauls me up. Icy wind strikes my still-sizzling lips, turning my face to stone.

Towering flames engulf the cabin. Acrid smoke fills my nose. A scream dies in my throat. The vial between my fingers slides through a crack in the caravan’s floor.

****

It ends, and I hunch against the wall, knees to heaving chest in a urine-soaked corner. A handprint-shaped path of violet crawls across my arms and torso. Crimson slashes, raised and pulsing, crisscross my thighs. Needle holes track from wrist to elbow. A map of a territory of torture I’ll never fully escape.

The relief I seek—her lips, her caress, one last hit—elude me.

When I wake again, a wail that rattles the bars of this fresh hell. Rose, you were right. I need you, I—

The faction commandant appears and waves me up with a baton tap to my toe. “Quiet down, prisoner. Your way with words is your grace. You are being reassigned to the Information Faction. TeleProp Lead.”

I squint, a shaky hand above my brow. “What if I refuse?”

His chuckle ripples the remaining hairs on my arm. “You have 30 seconds to accept this offer.”

“I have one request.” I swallow the bitter lump in my throat. “Spare her. She didn’t aid me. I forced her.”

He sweeps the high-powered beam, illuminating my left nipple. “You needn't worry about that dyke whore. She will be protected and compensated for her new position.”

A tear races down my cheek. “How can I trust you?”

He shakes his head and disappears through the door.

I see the needle before I drift off again, drops of my preferred elixir dotting the dirt floor, oblivion just beyond my reach.

****

I blink, Rose’s smile floating behind my eyelids. Towers of lies regurgitated and lauded teeter on my massive walnut desk. A prize-winning article lines the deep sage wallpaper, the only decoration in a well-lit cottage tucked in the recesses of the Admin Faction.

I’m sober and safe and celebrated, desperate for word of her.

Will she turn her head when I call her name, or walk away before I tell how her words and her grace imbue me with the fuel to suffer through this, to survive?

Weeks later, I rejoice when the regime falls, due in part to my work.

My sentence is to be carried out by the new government within days, but I have a plan.

The guard enters my cell, smilng as he hands me the hardcover, a mystery I owned as a child—my last request.

I shoot up and wield the needle. When the sharp end skewers the vein of his beefy forearm, I grab the keys and a slate gray revolver from his belt while he thrashes, putrid foam bubbling over engorged lips.

I tuck the weapon in my waistband and sprint through the stark white corridor, lungs aflame, heads turning. The clop of shields and armor echoes as Securers give chase, long guns racking.

The air, glorious and heavy, grazes my overheated skin. I don’t stop, powered by insanity and desire. I rush past a garden in bloom, golden buds winking, like her eyes.

Wherever you are, wait for me, my darling Rose. We owe each other a forever.