Chapter 17
Wild Rose
The Unbroken Circle
Mama used to serenade me with a fable, an allegory wrapped in gentle whispers. It told of a woman with silver strands, a story that once danced over my ears without meaning. But now, those words, once cryptic, echo through my mind with a clear clarity, each syllable ringing like a bell. This sickness, the one that has made a home deep within my bones, once felt like a breathing terror. It was a noxious parasite, burrowing beneath my skin, its presence a constant drain, feeding on my very essence and leaving me hollow and gasping.
Her eyes were windows to the cruelty she endured. They voiced the anguish her mouth failed to yell. Her ears caught on to the venomous spit that dribbled from their tongues. Her hands wielded daggers through their hearts.
I loathed it
Waardenburg syndrome A genetic condition I was born to, and one I will die with. It is a bitter irony to be so young and grow the will to push away the ignorance of others. Their lack of understanding was my misery.
Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Their words were meant to break her to her knees, but instead they became the needles that bleed them even. The devil was once an angel and so was she.
It might have been child’s play to them to gauge their eyes and point their fingers, but it was daunting being at the receiving end. In a sea of green vines, I’m the prickling thorn.
Anger is like a poison, sinking into your veins and leaving flames of hurt to lick your soul. It was fury that made her, but it was the promise of peace that saved her.
Mama was spirited, with a soul as graceful as a dance. She embodied the 1940s to perfection, her Kitty Foyle dress and pearls a timeless signature. By day, she was the picture of sweetness. A tea-loving housewife. The baker who filled the house with warmth and the scent of fresh bread. But when night came, she slipped away, hiding behind the walls that housed her patients, retreating into a quiet world of care and compassion that only the night could hold.
“They’re sick and misunderstood, baby, and I’m only trying to make them feel better and seen.”
Mama was known as the psychiatrist who mended fractured minds, the healer who stitched broken souls back together. Dr. Holly Fontaine, they called her—the ‘crazed doctor,’ they whispered behind closed doors. But there was nothing mad about her. She was as dedicated to her work as she was to her family, a force of unwavering passion that flowed through every part of her life. She believed in redemption, in healing, in the possibility of finding peace within chaos. To her, the human mind was a delicate puzzle, and she had the gift to put it back together .
Twice a week, we would drive up the winding mountain roads to the psychiatric institution where Mama worked. The air always felt different there, colder, as though it held its breath. Behind the glass cube, we would watch her. From that silent, distant place, she would move with purpose, each action deliberate, each glance filled with care. Even though the barrier separated us, I could still feel the warmth of her presence, steady and unwavering. In that place, where everything seemed uncertain, she was a constant, a calming force amidst the chaos.
“It’s unorthodox, but they’re most vulnerable when they believe the world is asleep.”
“But he’s hiding, Mama,” my voice was barely a murmur as my eyes narrowed at the boy, cloaked in shadow, watching us from the dark.
“Bastian, that’s his name, sweetheart. Come sit with me,” she says softly, taking my small hand in hers and leading us to the sofa.
“Come out, Bastian. I want you to meet my daughter, Essa.”
I’m not scared, but I lean into Mama’s touch, and in her arms, she pulls me closer. The boy slowly comes out from the corner and sits across from us.
Bastian keeps his head down, his hoodie hiding his face. But when he finally looks up, the scar on his cheek makes me feel cold. It looks really painful. I shudder and Mama’s hand gently rubs my back.
“Hey mama,” I say, letting my tote bag slip from my shoulder, the fabric rustling as I drape it over the ear of the chair. “Look, I brought your favorites.” A faint, bittersweet smile tugs at the corner of my lips as I raise the apricot roses, a gesture meant for her, though I know she cannot see. The petals glow faintly against the dull light, their orange hues like faint embers in the cold room. I move to discard the wilting flowers—their frailty a stark reminder of time slipping by—and carefully empty the old water, a stagnant thing now, into the bathroom sink and place the vase back on her bedside with the unwilted roses.
Grey walls and that goddamn antiseptic smell.
I pause, holding my breath for a moment longer than usual, before I place a gentle kiss on her forehead. It’s a careful kiss, one that doesn’t disturb the tubes and wires that tether her to life. Her skin is still warm, but it feels like a distant echo of what once was. I stay there, a pang of sorrow tightening my chest, staring at her face. It’s peaceful in a way, though there’s no soul behind those still features anymore. I try not to think about it, but I can’t help myself. Hours have slipped into months, and my heart has grown numb to the hope I once held. Hope that feels more like a forgotten dream now, scattered and fragile. I know my mother is gone. Her body still lives, but it’s not her. I can feel it. And while her doctor insists I let her rest, I am still caught in the denial of it all, clinging to the last thread of a life that once was.
Outside, the storm rages. Thunder rips the sky apart, a fury that matches the storm in my heart. The rain falls in torrents, heavy and relentless, soaking everything in its path. The world outside is violent in its weeping.
“Did you have fun tonight, my sweet girl?” Mama’s voice is soft and warm, as she looks at me through the rear-view mirror.
Tonight we celebrated my birthday, an evening filled with laughter and song, the joy of simple pleasures. The karaoke, the clinking of glasses, the camera flashes—mama always capturing moments, never letting a single one slip away.
“I did, thank you.”
“No need, fleur,” Papa chimes in, his voice light, teasing. “Anything to put a smile on my favorite daughter’s face.”
“I’m your only daughter.” I laugh softly.
Most days, I don’t remember that night, not clearly. And somewhere between the thick fog of denial and the aching void of truth, those memories are tucked away. Hidden in a place I try not to go, because it hurts too much to face it. But the truth of it is, I know how it feels to be alone. To feel like an orphan. It’s like a slow, endless death, each day another wound to bear.
How ironic to lose your parents on your birthday.
“I met a man,” I say to the empty room, my voice barely above a whisper. The heaviness of my own words feel strange, as if they belong to someone else. “He is an enigma. You would’ve liked him, mama.”
The room stands silent, holding its breath with me. I wait for her reply, but it never comes. I know better.
“I feel like a walking quandary,” I continue, more to myself than to anyone. “Keeping too many old secrets, too many pieces of a puzzle I’m afraid to finish.” My breath catches in my throat, the ache of it too familiar now. “I’m trying to find answers to questions that are bigger than me, and I don’t know if I should be.”
It was the promise of peace that saved her.
As the day goes by and night draws nearer, the room grows dim. The air, once filled with the sounds of daylight, now holds only the quiet pang of time slipping away. What felt like hours spent in this room now melts into eternity. Each passing second seems to stretch, as though the universe itself is waiting in silence. Yet outside these walls, the world moves on, indifferent to the agony unfolding within. I press my lips to her cheek, whispering goodbye and promising I’ll be back soon. My heart hurts, a dull sting with each beat, as I pull away and turn to leave. And as I step away, the house awaits, hollow and cold, its presence daunting. Each room is a reminder of the memories that haunt its walls. And before I know it, I find myself back home, the silence stretching out before me, heavy with unspoken words. The air is thick with anticipation, as I wait in the shadows, knowing the conversation ahead will not be met with open arms.
I thought I had prepared for this conversation. I thought I had steeled myself against whatever harsh words might come. Callum’s absence had, in its own way, granted me a fleeting peace on most nights, but now that he’s here, the tension coils tighter within me. My hands move absentmindedly, tidying up a kitchen already spotless, the movements as much a distraction as a necessity. The clock ticks, its rhythmic pulse marking the time, and the hands of it creeping toward 10:00 p.m. I know he’ll appear soon—he always does, just as the night deepens. His job, he says, takes him away in the late hours, but I’ve never quite believed him. Something about the way he says it feels false, as though he’s hiding the truth behind a veil of half-lies.
I stand in the silence of the kitchen, my mind swirling, every sound in the house a warning. In some perfect world, Callum would simply disappear from my life, leaving me to breathe in peace. But in this world, nothing is perfect. So here I wait, for a confrontation I know is coming, one l dread all the same. He makes me feel like an inconvenience, a burden he cannot rid himself of. And yet, he never leaves. I don’t belong here, but I am anchored to this house, just as I am tethered to him.
His door creaks open, the sound of his footsteps unmistakable as he steps into the hall. The quiet is pierced by his presence as he makes his way toward me. I feel the weight of his gaze on me before I even see him, like a heavy shadow stretching across the room. His eyes roaming over me lazily, the familiar scowl taking shape on his face.
“I have something to tell you,” I swallow, the lump in my throat thick and painful. My heart races, the fear creeping up my spine. He stops in front of me, his gaze sharpening, a hand running down his face in frustration.
“Make it quick. I’ve got other things to do.” he says, his voice laced with impatience. My fingers find their way into the pockets of my coat, fiddling nervously.
“I’m moving out this week,” I say, the words leaving my mouth before I can even process them fully. His eyes widen, then narrow, his lips twisting into a sneer.
“Where to, Odessa? With what money?” The words hit me like a slap, cold and painful.
“I have—” The words die in my throat as he stalks toward me. I brace myself, knowing what’s coming next. The violence in his eyes, the cruelty in his posture—it’s all I’ve come to know of him. But instead of the blow I expect, he only brushes past me without a glance heading straight for the fridge, his movements abrupt as he grabs a bottle of water, unscrews the cap, and drinks it as though I am not even there.
“Odessa,” he says my name like it’s something tainted, something disgusting. The sound of it curls around me, tightening its grip. Fear floods my veins, chilling me to the bone. “Where is your mother? Where are you hiding her?” His voice drops to a sinister whisper, the glint in his eyes wicked.
When I moved Mama to the Sanatorium, it was to protect her from him, to keep her away from the claws of a man who would stop at nothing to tear us apart. He had once almost signed the papers to have her taken off life support without my knowledge. I shudder at the thought.
“Where she is, is none of your?—”
The rest of my words are swallowed by the pain-filled sting of his hand across my cheek. My head jerks violently to the side, the burn of his slap searing into my skin like fire. The pain blooms instantly, fierce and blinding, leaving me momentarily adrift in a haze of confusion. I grip the counter, my fingers digging into the cold surface, holding myself upright as if the world might collapse if I let go. The darkness swells within me, but I fight to keep it hidden, refusing to let him see the tears that claw at my eyes, threatening to fall like broken promises.
“Speak to me properly,” he growls, his breath foul against my skin. “This little game you’re playing will end one way, and it won’t be pretty.” His face moves dangerously close to mine, his words hanging in the air like poison. “And that will be with you and Holly dead.”
I fight the tears, pushing them down, refusing to let him have that power over me. His words may wound me, but they will not break me. Not yet.
His hand snakes into my hair, yanking my head back with a harsh force. The pain is searing, like fire ripping through my scalp, and I can feel my roots snap, each strand of hair tearing free with a sickening crack. A cry escapes my lips, muffled by the raw agony that pulses through me, but there’s no release. I’m held, caught in his cruel grip, each tug pulling me deeper into a suffocating pain.
“How can you hate your own sister so sickeningly?” My voice is anguished.
“Pack your bags, Odessa,” he spits, each syllable gut-wrenching “Let’s see how far you go, before you come back. ”
“You’ve never wanted me here,” I whisper, my hands frantic, grasping the edge of the counter, desperate for something—anything—to throw at him. My legs tremble beneath me, the weight of it all pushing me closer to collapse as the pain threatens to swallow me whole.
A bitter laugh slips from his lips, twisted and cruel. “I’ve wished you dead for days, but you’re more useful alive. But run, you’ll soon see what l have waiting for you.” He pushes me away, my back hitting the cold floor.
And just like that, he’s gone, disappearing out the door as if I mean nothing to him. I sit there, frozen in place, the weight of his departure settling over me. The room feels smaller, the silence louder. A scream rises in my chest, a raw, agonizing sound that I don’t let loose. I won’t give him that. Not now. Not ever.
But as I crumble there, alone in the dark, I know that peace will never come. Not for me. Not for Mama. The promise of peace that saved her is a lie—a cruel joke. I am left with nothing but the broken remnants of a life that is slipping away, piece by piece, and the knowledge that I will never truly escape.