A Blossoming Rose
Rosebud could no longer see her father's Death Certificate due to the tears streaming down her face. Relief and hope momentarily displace the rage, presenting a better life absent of “HIM” but the memory of him sends her mind reeling once again.
After a period of tearful memories, she scrubs her face with her flanelled arm, trying to make the sadness disappear before making her way to class.
“Rosey? Are you ready?" Asks Susan from the hallway.
“Just a minute," replies Rosebud from the mirror as she reapplies her mascara.
I won't think about him or let him interfere with my education, not now or ever!
I am worth it! I am a good human being deserving of the trust and love of others! Just because other people are mean and spiteful does not mean I need to be like them too! I am a wonderful person who will make a difference for the better! I am in control of mine own destiny!
She quietly repeats the mantra like her psychiatrist told her to but unfortunately it has little effect on her spirit.
Susan pounds on the door, “Rosey come on! We'll be late again and you know how Mr. Robison gets when were late!”
Stalling for time, she quietly dabs her nose trying to keep her voice steady, “I know I know! He'll rant and rave about our dedication and diligence and then we'll hear some college anecdote from the 20’s.” She takes a last look at the mirror, composure set in place, and opens the door to her impatient friend.
Preventing any awkward questions, Rosebud smiles and offers a hasty apology, “Sorry, but you caught me taking a nap.”
“That's okay,” says Susan, “just hurry it up will ya.”
They race down the steps and out the door, dodging dorm mates while trying to get to class. Susan's stress over being late unwittingly gives Rosebud a short reprieve from her thoughts as they scramble through the fallen leaves of autumn.
Seeing their flush faces and noting their hasty entrance, Mr. Robison frowns with a raised eyebrow as they ease into their seats, “Today we'll be discussing an interesting time in American history. A time of hardship, a time of daring, a time of growth. Can anyone tell me of what time period I'm referring to?” With a smug look he turns to one of the two late comers, “Rosebud? Would you please enlighten the class.”
Rosebud hides an exasperated sigh and answers, “I am not sure of the dates involved but I think it's the time when America was expanding. You know covered wagons, cowboys and indians, the colt 45, whiskey and whores, etcetera.”
“An admirable attempt but it is quite obvious that Miss Rosebud did not do the reading. Would anyone else care to try and answer…”
“What a bastard! Are all men alike? Do they all enjoy degrading and hurting women?”
As Rosebud's anger permeates her soul, she remembers her pain filled childhood and the father who never loved her.
“You’re not Rosebud! You'll never be Rosebud! That was your mother's name.” He takes another gulp of Cognac before continuing his tirade. “I gave it to her because she was a beautiful flower of a woman who embodied a rosebud. The only fault she ever had was inappropriately giving you that name! And how do you thank her for a name you don't deserve? You kill her. You play with your dolls while she lies dying on the floor.” He wobbles to his feet, unstrapping his leather belt, and takes a jerky step towards the cowering little girl. “No daddy. Please don't hit me.”
Rosebud flinches in her chair as the remembered blow welts her shoulders, shocking her back to class. Tears blur her vision but her cheeks remain dry.
“I could have called the police. Gotten the gardener to lend a hand. Called the operator, anything. But no, I was too busy playing with my toys. If only…”
“No!” She whispers to herself as Dr. Smythe told her to when debasing her self.
Dr. Smythe’s words soothingly come back to her from their session on self degradation. “How old were you when your mother passed away Rosebud?”
Rosebud thinks for a second before responding, “five doctor.”
Dr. Smythe knowingly nods his head and asks, “And tell me Rosebud, what is a typical day for a five year old?”
“I don't know,” she quickly responds. The doctor patiently waits for a better answer and Rosey pick up on the hint, “well they eat, do their chores, study their ABC's, play around,…”
“Stop right there.” Dr. Smythe interrupts as he leans forward in his chair. “Did you hear yourself? Five year old children play. They don't watch after their parents. Isn't it the parents job to take care of the child rather than vice versa?” He pauses for a second, allowing her to absorb and assimilate this new idea. Seeing the light bulb of understanding light up her eyes, the doctor continues to extol upon the futility of self-degradation, “So with this new understanding, do you still feel that it was your fault that your mother died?
Tears stream down her face as she makes her way back to her dorm. Fortunately Susan had to work after Robison's class allowing her time to recover from the memories that haunt her. She sits on the grassy bank near the lake to read her Harlequin novel for a reprieve from her pain.
After reading for a while, she realizes she is no longer angry or depressed. She wonders where this peace has come from and understands that the book and its insignificance had distracted her from her life.
Suddenly able to rationally think of
her father's death and the physical and emotional pain he inflicted upon
her, she realizes with tears that he was a difficult man to have as a father
and that he is no longer around to cause her pain. She thinks about the
different people who were always there for her, whether they knew they
were a help or not, and tears wet her cheeks as she realizes the support
and comfort they had provided throughout her life. Susan and her happy
go lucky personality, Mr. Robison and his ridiculous stories of yesteryear,
and even Dr. Smythe and his pleas of reason and rational thought filled
the empty spaces of her heart which her father failed to fill with love.
She looks down the bank and sees a lone rose, late in bloom, and understands
that she has finally blossomed from her father's wretched Rosebud to a
beautiful Rose.
E. L. Spencer