Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ The Briar and the Rose ❯ 2 ( Chapter 2 )

I could not move because of the pain… oh the pain! It hurt so much…..

 

 

He had beaten me, and for what reason I did not know. My father, my solid golden rock for so long, had used his fist and turned my olive skin blue. I wanted to cry so badly, had done so why as his large hands connected with my frail body. I wanted to raise my own fists towards the sky and curse God…but I could not. It hurt so badly to do so. Twelve years old, and I lay in a puddle of my own blood and sorrows.

 

Gone were the days of my cotton childhood, and reality had given's own slap across my face. It began a few weeks after I pricked my hand on the rose. I was playing on the back porch while mother cooked dinner. My father would return home soon from his office job. He did not enjoy his work, but he continued to stay there to support my mother and myself. He was such a wonderful man and I loved him oh so much! He always had a surprise for me up his sleeve when I least expected it. He would often wait for me to wake up in the morning, grab me up, swing me around, and call me his “darling Rosie.” Yes, the name had stuck. Actually my parents had become quite fond of it.

 

I found my interest currently in that of the fuzzy green cattepillar that was inching its way across one of the planks in our back porch. I had decided to name him Braun, which meant “strong one” in German. He was so brave, pulling himself across the great expanse of our meager porch. I began poking him when I heard a sudden crash that came from the kitchen. I ran inside, eager and a little scared to see what had happened. As I swung through our screen door and hooked a right at the end of the hallway, I told myself it was nothing to worry about. Mother had probably dropped some dishes on the floor.

 

I entered the kitchen, and when I saw what lay before me I found that I could not breathe. There on the floor, shallow breaths moving in and out, lay my mother unconscious. Something clicked in my young mind and I found my voice. “Mother! What happened? Mommy are you ok?” I shook her as I shouted at her, both worried sick and angry that I could not wake her. After another three attempts, I realized that it was futile. What was I to do? Think…think Hilde! Phone…..

 

It came to me as a whisper, a hurried thought that made all the sense in the world. Why hadn't I done that first? Nevermind that! I reached over the counter and grabbed the phone. Who first? I dialed the emergency number, and let it ring three times before I was banging it against the counter. The operator picked up and asked what my emergency was.

 

“My mother's fell on the floor and I can't wake her up! Please someone help me!” At that point I began to cry.

 

“You're mother is unconscious? Is she bleeding or having trouble breathing?”

 

“I can't tell if she's bleeding! She's breathing really shallow…please help me!”

 

“Sit tight and don't leave you're mother alone. Someone will be over there right away honey. Do you want me to stay on the phone with you until the ambulance arrives?”

 

That's where it all began. After a few short days in the hospital, and a lot of long test, they diagnosed my mother with terminal cancer. I didn't understand what that meant at the time, only that I knew my mother was very sick. They never told me she was going to die, because my mother wished for me to live normaly with her as long as possible. She died a month after I had my ninth birthday. I miss her so much….

 

That's where the beating comes in. After my mother's death, my father was left devastated. Having a loving daughter wasn't enough to keep him sober. So drink after drink, he slowly let himself die as well. I watched as it ate him apart, tore us apart.

Yet, even though the drinking dulled his thoughts, it wasn't enough to take away the pain. As a result he took it out on me in the form of violent beatings. At first I had screamed and cried, but I learned it only made it worse. So night after night I laid there, silently wishing myself to a private paradise as his fist broke and tore my body apart.

 

Rosie… he would call me Rosie. His little Rosie. His frail little Rosie who loved him enough to try to absorb his pain night after night. I could not move….. from the pain or from the memory.