Perfect Little Rose

You stared at your partner, unsure of how to feel. Your entire life, you’d built yourself up into the perfect human being. At the behest of your mother, you’d strived for excellence in everything. You never settled for anything less than perfection, and you didn’t know how to.

“Get mad! It’s weird that you’re always so willing to do everything!”

Their voice rose. You cowered on a long-forgotten instinct. Gone was the person you had come to find love in, gone was the honey in their voice. There was no fairness to them, no trace of kindness or compassion. Gone were they.

You could only see her. Her towering figure, her imposing nature. You could feel the breath on your neck, the nails digging into your shoulder with each missed note. Music filled the air, but it was inaudible over the venom dripping from her voice. You were hot, a ball of sweat that failed to warm up the ice in your veins. You had goosebumps, yet they failed to smooth you out.

“Do it already!”

A slap. The stinging and the redness were nothing compared to the breaking in your heart. The tears and the sobs were nothing compared to the sinking in your soul. You remember sitting there the first time it happened, unable to move, unwilling to accept it had happened. Oh, how you wished you could’ve remained so naïve.

“Look at me!”

You were grabbed by your shoulders, shaken around, and thrown aside. You were trampled on, pulled to your feet, and forced to live underfoot. You were broken. Like the vase when you were four. It was a small vase with a single rose. The material was porcelain, and the exterior had a simple gold pattern. You remember how easily it shattered and how much work your tiny hands put into cleaning up the mess. And you remember the pain and the suffering of the rose as its safe space was suddenly taken away from it. You remember crying, though not why.

“What’s wrong with you?”

You remember the despair. You remember the darkness. You remember the night. It would’ve been so easy. Your mother had no idea where you’d gone off to. You could’ve left her behind forever. You could’ve forgotten about everything she’d done to you. You could’ve ended the suffering. All it would’ve taken was breaking one tiny vase and leaving the rose to die. You have no idea why you didn’t topple it over the edge.

“Are you okay?”

You remember the brightness. You remember the sunlight piercing the veil of clouds. You remember the day. It should’ve been so easy. You had no idea what you were getting yourself into. You should’ve left her behind forever. You should’ve forgotten about everything she’d done to you. You should’ve ended the suffering. You should’ve broken that vase and left the rose to die. You have no idea why you didn’t.

“Are you crying?”

The thorns. It was the thorns. You were too afraid of them. Yes, you could’ve broken the vase. Yes, you could’ve left the rose to die. The thorns would’ve remained alongside the broken glass. With every step they took, they would feel pain. With every path they walked, they would leave a trail of blood. The suffering would never have ended.

“Hey, it’s okay.”

You straightened up. You looked your partner in the eyes. Theirs were full of such concern. You could see in the reflection of their pupils that yours were not.

You wiped your tears. It was disrespectful not to keep your emotions level. You patted the front of your dress flat. It was improper not to maintain your outfit throughout the day. You held your head high. It was impolite to watch the floor in the company of others. You smiled. It was rude not to enjoy the presence of others. You spoke. It was only what was expected of you.

“Of course, it’s okay.”

Because you were in your porcelain vase, and this was your safe space. Because you wanted to be free, but knew the thorns would hurt. Because you had grown to understand only that which you were forced into. Because you were the perfect little rose.