Page 53 of Downfall

“Rose I’m so sorry.” Darius says. “I know how much you cared for my nephew. I know how much you cared for each other.”

I look away, drop my gaze. Surely he doesn’t believe that? Paris said he was pretty much forced into this and who else would have been behind that than Darius himself? Besides, he knew what Paris had done. He knew he was assaulting me.

“Let me arrange the funeral. Let me take care of this and you can just focus on healing, on grieving too.”

I nod. Like I give a damn what send-off Paris has anyway. The fucker can be tossed off a cliff for all I care.

His thumb traces over the back of my hand. It feels odd. It feels intimate. I pull my hand away and my mother mutters my name like I’m a child misbehaving.

“I’m tired.” I whisper, just wanting everyone to leave now.

“Of course.” Darius says gently. “Get some rest. If you need anything Rose let me know. You’re like a daughter to me. You always have been. Nothing changes that.”

I look up at him with my one good eye, being as amenable as I can because I need to keep him on my side. I need Darius to be my ally now more than ever.

“Thank you.” I reply.

He leans over and kisses the top of my head. I feel my parents react. Both of them in different ways. My mother is surprised. My father seems to swell with pride as if I’ve achieved something.

Darius leaves the room but not before telling my parents to keep him updated and to let him know the minute I’m discharged. The minute I’m home.

As soon as the door shuts my father’s face turns from one of concern to glee. His eyes snap back to me with something akin to pride.

“That was very well played.” He says.

I shake my head. “I didn’t do anything.”

“Oh shush.” He waves his hand. “Keep playing this card. Keep acting like a bird with a broken wing. We need to keep Darius close more than ever.”

My stomach twists. That’s all he thinks about? Even now? Paris is dead for fucksake. My husband is dead. Not that I’m heartbroken, but still, are we just going to act like it didn’t happen? Act like he never existed?

“Why don’t you leave us to it?” My mother says. “Rose needs to rest and you have things to do.”

My father looks between us and smiles. “Fine.”

I want to ask my mother to leave too. I want to just be alone, in my own space, to just process all of this. Only she settles herself down, makes it abundantly clear that she’s not going anywhere. So I lay down, huddle under the sheets, and pretend to sleep while my head tries to make sense of everything that’s happened in the last few hours.

Paris is dead.

Paris is fucking dead.

I never have to smile and pretend. Never have to act like he’s my loving husband, like I’m his loving wife. I never have to endure his beatings. I never have to endurehimagain. Is it wrong to be happy about that? Maybe it is. Maybe I am a horrible person. Maybe I truly am. But a smile creeps across my face anyway and it’s hard not to let out a sound of glee.

But I have to play the grieving widow.

The thought hits me and I let out a sigh. Even now, even in my newfound freedom, I still have to play this game, still have to keep up the charade.

Paris is dead and yet still, in so many ways, I am still not free of him.

Rose

My mother rides with me in the car. My face is still swollen. My arm was dislocated in the crash but beyond that and a few nasty bruises I got away pretty much unscathed. No one comments on the obvious marks around my neck. It’s as if they don’t exist.

As we pull up outside so many people are there. So many cameras snapping away. I hide my face behind my hair but I still see it; the rows and rows of flowers laid out by the gates.

People mourning the loss of a man barely worth the oxygen he breathed.

The gravel crunches under the tyres and as we come to a stop I let out an exhale.

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