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Eden's Apple

By PamelaBlake All Rights Reserved ©

Other / Drama


Pre-war Bradford 1937. “Rose didn’t feel like Rose any longer, but someone she now hated”. Fragile and disgraced Rose stands pregnant with the forceful child of her own father, unable to rid herself of the unwanted soul that now grows within. The events that transpire around Rose will grow to define the very generations to follow as her past refuses to release her, clawing onto her like a demonic parasite determined to stay with its host. This is the story of children born into depravity, this is the story of love, understanding and self sacrifice, this is the story of Rose.

Untitled chapter

I built a wall around me.

Beyond it stands

my Eden’s Apple Tree.

Naked of truth

I ate once its one fruit.

Part 1

Bradford 1937

Her eyes did not want to see. Her body did not want to feel. Her mind did not want to understand. She gripped the dark wooden headboard, where the roses she had attempted to paint as a child, although faded by time, were still visible. Then she was running, running on a golden field bursting with sunshine and flowers, the air vibrating with birdsongs, butterflies rushing to meet her, wind whooshing through her hair and the smells of the earth - intense, moist and warm - making her dizzy.

The pain brought her back to reality. She was going to discard her pain on that golden meadow, the pain that forced silent and unconscious tears to flood her pillow. She felt their wetness on her neck and hair, adding to the one between her legs now part of her. Her eyes remained closed while he, getting up from the bed hastened to put on his trousers saying, It’ll not happen again Rose, just wash up”. In slow motion, she heard the creaking of the floorboards under the weight of his heavy frame as he descended the stairs, then the slumming of the front door. Pain; disgust; the only focal points in her body, in her brain while she tried to numb her once-clear conscience, now stained forever, telling her that she had allowed something wrong to happen with the man she had loved and respected. Naked, in a daze, she managed to negotiate the stairs, crossed the sitting room, and staggered into the kitchen. She opened the back door and unhooked the tin bath hanging on the outside wall, brought it inside, then ignoring the hot water simmering in a large pot on the coal range, she got hold of the tin jug and automatically filled the tub one third with cold water from the tap. She immersed herself in the freezing pool shivering, scrubbing her small and fragile body with the carbolic soap over and over almost to a bleeding point punishing Rose, because Rose didn’t feel like Rose any longer but someone she now hated. But I’ll never hear his pleas again, or see the torment on his face; it’s over, she thought, striving to appease her mind. She wanted to cry, needing to shed the flood of inner tears about to drown her but unable to do so, powerless. She finally stood up shaking violently, stepped out of the bath and let the water run down from her body onto the grey stone floor, staring at the dark stains slowly disappearing through small gaps on the worn surface before climbing upstairs to her room. The mirror on the wall... she suppressed her reflection by concealing it with a large red scarf her mother had knitted for her. Erase it, Rose. Bury that memory under the golden meadow. Shaking all over, her skin still wet, she dressed, hiding herself beneath three layers of clothing; without a glimpse to the defiled white shit she dragged the mattress onto the carpet and stripped it, then taking the lid off the box of her scented talcum powder on the bedside table she lowered the soft powder puff deep under the pure white dust, shaking it all over the mattress’ cover before dragging it back onto its metal frame. Wrapping herself in the feather quilt, she lay on the floor with her eyes closed. The field, Rose… you are there, look at the butterflies, at the blue sky, no darkness, only sunshine. During her following sleepless nights, almost afraid to breathe, she focussed on listening: to the opening of a door, to steps on the squeaky boards of the landing getting closer... but every night she pushed the heavy blanket chest in her room in front of the door and she never turned the oil lamp off at night, afraid as she had been as a child -a time that now seemed so very long ago.

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