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The · Record · of · Roses


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The journey was one of discomfort for the woman, each rut and bump of the road was announced with jarring movement that left still healing injuries aching anew. Not that this rose would complain of the abuse and new bruising, all of it taken stoically with mouth tight and face slightly paled. Worse injuries have been dealt to her before – much worse. This was more an inconvenience.

In these few days, has much in the way of words been exchanged between the two? Certainly the journey has been a quiet one save for the occasional, 'Pass me this,' and 'Do you hurt much,' and of course, 'Scotch .. please.' To dull the pain, of course. Small touches conveyed more than words could anyways, the 'I'm here,' of his hand upon her leg, the trusting rest of her head against his shoulder.

Such a homecoming is not one that she had imagined.

When he spoke her head was rising from such a rest, the half-lidded eyes pulling open with curiosity. “Of course I remember.” How could she forget that night? Other bits and pieces of her childhood blurred in spots, merged with the memories of others in the way that often happens with the passage of time. Not the ones that concerned him. Oh, not those.

There was a laugh then, a warm velvet sound – perhaps the first of which that has been produced till now with this journey taken up. “Hardly... but worry of getting caught never slowed us down.” Why should they allow it to do so now?
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