>Jade: Call Rose.
The next day, you go to work and you don’t think about much of anything. It’s busy and the weather is hot and it takes all your mental efforts to get the job done. The feel of potting soil under your fingernails at the end of the day is a comforting reminder of all the flowers you put in the ground, which are sure to bloom in the coming weeks.
You drive home, turn on the radio, and take a shower. For a few minutes you do nothing but stand in the spray and enjoy the feel of the water rinsing away the dirt and sweat. You close your eyes and run your fingers through your hair to get it fully wet, and then your mind breaks.
Inside the newly opened crevice is the vision of a young boy you once knew with a stab wound in his chest, lying in his own blood.
You turn to the wall and rest your head against your arms, choking back a sob.
Why are these nightmares becoming reality?
He can’t come back, can he? He did in your dreams, but for it to happen now would be a miracle. Miracles don’t happen to real people. They certainly don’t happen to you.
You haven’t had to attend a funeral since your grandfather died, but you still remember how you felt watching them bury him. You don’t know how you’d feel watching John go into the ground, but of course you’ll be there, standing next to your friends Dave and Rose.
Rose. He must have told her, too, and she must be taking it hard. It might do her some good to hear a friendly voice right now. Yeah. You can do it, Harley.
You lift your head and turn your face into the spray, feeling it wash away your tears and massage the aching muscles around your eyes, then work your way through your bathing routine, carefully scrubbing away every speck of dirt you can find. Afterwards you towel off and slip into your favourite pajama bottoms and tank top, and with your hair still dripping you pad into the living room to grab your cellphone off the kitchen counter.
Rose is in your contact list, though admittedly you haven’t called her yet since you reunited with her and the others. You felt like you would be imposing, and for a moment you feel that anxiety again.
What’s there to feel nervous about? This is Rose! And she might really need me!!
You might be the one who really needs her, but you’re not going to dwell on that. Instead, you hit the call button and lift the phone to your ear, waiting for her to pick up. It’s just after five so she shouldn’t be eating dinner yet, you hope? You could just call back later or leave her a message. It’s no big deal.
You watch the screen of the phone on the cluttered floor with barely an ounce of emotion. You’re clothed in a flowing, smokey black dress and the whispers in your ears are like music, no longer a migraine or a bother, but welcomed company, like long lost friends. Such as this one, you think in the flood of voices, and your thumb touches the answer button flashing on the screen. You lift it to your ear and for a moment, you do not speak. You merely observe the room around you, torn apart, tendrils crawling along walls and beginning to decay and crack them. At your feet, tendrils curl and disappear, slither and become no more. With a sharp intake of breath, you whisper into the receiver. Your whisper, however, is filled with other voices, like feedback or background noise, and sounds almost like static, though your words are sinister, and barely even words.
“nrgl’repou cris’yesiu. Jade is that you oh Jadey it’s been so long.”
When the line picks up there's a second or two or feedback before it quiets down and you can hear something -- something like voices, whispering, and you say, "Hello? Rose?"
Maybe you dialed the wrong number, you think. Then she calls your name, and it startles you.
It's true that you hadn't heard Rose's voice in a long time, but even so something sounds so wrong about it -- and she's never called you "Jadey" before. Rose Lalonde is sweet in her own ways but she is not predisposed to petnames. You hesitate.
"Rose? Yes, yes it's Jade. I heard what happened to --" You don't want to say it. "Do you want to talk? I figured it might be good to... well you know, you're the therapist." You laugh nervously. God, when did you get this bad at being a good friend? John is dead and all you can do is babble uselessly into your phone. You rub the bridge of your nose. "How are you?"
