Page 50 of Uprising

I hold her tighter. I don’t have any other words of comfort. I don’t know how to explain how fucked up this world is and in all honesty I don’t think I want her to understand it yet. It’s better she’s ignorant of the worst parts. Better she retains some sort of innocence for as long as she can.

“It will get better.” I say over and over, sweeping her hair back, soothing her until she’s fallen asleep and I pray her dreams are better than her awake hours.

And then I walk back into my room, ready to spend the rest of the night crying and grieving in the darkness until Darius comes to bed and I have to play pretend again.

As I go to wash off the smear of makeup from my face, I freeze staring at the table in my dressing room. There’s a rose placed on the top of it.

The stem is short. Someone cut it right by the bud as if they needed to sneak it in.

My heart starts to race. I blink trying to figure out if this is some sort of hallucination.

Only it’s still there.

It’s real.

I walk up to it and I realise it’s not a Juliet rose, but it’s so damn close I doubt the average person could tell the difference.

I look about, glance behind me. Is this a trick? Is this some new form of torture that Darius has devised? Did he find out this little titbit about Roman and now he’s going to torment me, to twist this memory into something awful, something tainted?

But there’s no one here. The room is silent, the house feels empty even though I know Carter is right below me, making sure the captive wife is where she belongs.

I pick it up, take in a deep inhale, and a tear escapes, sliding down my cheek.

“Roman.” I whisper his name.

It feels like his ghost is here. It feels like he’s haunting me. That his spirit is lingering about, refusing to leave the earth because of what happened to him in those last awful moments of his life.

I drop my gaze and then spot what else is there.

What was underneath it.

It’s a scrawled up note. Half torn paper with ragged ends.

I pick it up, unfold it, and let out a whimper as I see the handwriting. Handwriting I’d recognise anywhere.

It is Roman. It’s his writing.

‘I’m going to save you both. Do whatever you have to in order to survive Rose. Whatever. Stay strong. I love you.’

My heart’s racing now. I stumble out of the room, out past the bedroom, and onto the balcony. Was he here? Was he in this house? How the hell did this note even get here?

Roman’s alive. He’s alive.

I crumble to the floor. My legs giving way as my grief, my pain, all of it hits me. How is he alive? How is this possible? I saw his coffin? I saw…

But I didn’t did I?

Reality hits me like a tidal wave. I didn’t see him. All I saw was a wooden box. I never saw Roman, I never saw any proof that he was actually inside.

“Roman.” I gasp again. Wishing he was here. Wishing he’d climb up over the balustrade. I wouldn’t even need him to hold me, to touch me, just seeing him would be enough. Just seeing him here.

It feels like something switches inside me. Like a fire comes back to life for the briefest of seconds.

Roman is alive. I know in my heart. I know that’s why this grief, this pain, none of it has left me.

And if he is alive then all of this, every awful moment is simply borrowed time.

One horrific hiatus before Roman comes and it finally all ends. Just as he always promised me it would.

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