Roses and Poppies

It was a delightful evening, crimson petals surrounded me, their delicate scent wafting in the breeze. I felt elated as I took it all in.

But as the darkness fell, the roses dwindled; their hue turned obscenely bright, and their fragrance turned noxious.

I couldn’t breathe.

I panicked, looking around only to find the thorns pricking me, my blood feeding the roses, its metallic odor mingling with the flowers. In the middle of the garden stood a single candle and a box of matches, but each time I tried lighting it, the wick refused to burn for me. I cupped my hand and tried again; I could feel the thorns and vines creeping up on me. The last match fell with a thud, and my screams were swallowed by a swirl of roses and thorns.

---

I woke to the cries of my baby. The scent of roses faded, though the strong smell of iron lingered, and I realized I had bled through my clothes. I sighed, exhausted from the turmoil of my nightmare and the evasiveness of sleep.

I murmured comfort to my sweet child as she fed through the night. I couldn’t move. I sat in my rocking chair, letting go of myself, holding her close, perhaps the only thing that keeps me going in this state of constant exhaustion.

My husband is an honorable man, albeit a busy one. He serves in the office of a nobleman, and I know how vital his vigilance must be. I bear no resentment that he is not here with me, though I do miss him.

My weariness eased a little at the thought of my mother visiting. I knew I wouldn’t be less tired, but her company would be welcome. I watched the early rays of the sun dissipate the fog outside, silently counting away to the moment when it would be warm again.

---

Morning greeted me with a flurry of kisses from my baby and husband before the bustle of the day began. After seeing him off, I settled into my favorite chair when the door opened to the sweet scent of cinnamon and honey. My mother stood there, hands on her hips, surveying the mess that was her daughter. But where I expected judgment, I found only kindness, compassion, and open arms.

She helped me to my feet, and I buckled under the warmth of her care, weeping uncontrollably. She held me while my baby slept in my arms, whispering that all would be well.

When I had calmed, she grew quiet. Hesitantly, she asked, “Have I told you about Mother Poppy?”

“No, Mama, you haven’t.”

“Well, she is someone very special,” she said. “She came to me when you were a baby yourself, particularly when I was helpless. My own mama, your grandmama, sent her. Perhaps I could track her down and send her your way.”

I wiped my residual tears. “But Mama, money is scarce. I’m not sure if we can afford to have her over.”

“Oh tush, my dear! She isn’t easily persuaded and takes only the mothers she deems worthy under her wings. Let me find her first; I’m sure I can. Don’t worry, my darling girl. She will help you.”

For a moment, my heart filled with hope, only for it to sink beneath a tide of dark possibilities.

My mother looked at me sympathetically and handed me a cup of tea.

“An herbal concoction,” she said. “It’ll have you feeling better in a few days.”

She left before nightfall, as there wasn’t room for her to stay.

---

The next day began much like the last, the chores endless and my baby’s cries unrelenting. How I loved my little one, yet how I wished I could run away. Not because I didn’t want to be with her, but because she deserved a better mother than I could ever be. The thought devastated me.

A sob caught in my throat, and I felt the vestiges of hope fading, just as the door opened to let in the golden glimmer of the sun and with it, a tall lady, prim and proper, save for her eyes, which brimmed with warmth.

“Mother Poppy?” I whispered.

“Why yes, my dear,” she beamed.

Without another word, she began tackling the multitude of chores. By the time she left, my mother had come for tea.

Her eyes gleamed. “Ah, I see Mother Poppy worked her magic.”

“Yes, Mama,” I sighed, taking a sip. “I feel slightly better.”

“Give yourself some time, my dear, and drink your tea. I’ll wash up before I leave.”

---

Days went by, and Mother Poppy continued to work her magic. She was like a warm breeze that entered quietly and left without much fanfare. Her visits were erratic, other women must have needed her too, I supposed. Though the exhaustion never quite left, I was content in her presence and immensely grateful for her help.

My mother dropped in for tea now and then, her eyes full of relief at how well I was faring with Mother Poppy around.

---

One tranquil evening, after Mother Poppy’s departure, my mother came by and fussed over me and the baby. She went inside to soothe the evening cries while I sat with my tea. That’s when I noticed her bag was unfastened. She always hated that; “the dust gets in,” she would say. Smiling at her quirks, I reached to close it and saw an envelope with my name on it.

Inside was a letter and a small pouch of dried herbs and powder.

Dear Marie,

My daughter fares well under the opium and herb draught. I am uncertain if the measure should be altered to keep her steady within the apparition. My heart fills with fear at the thought of how she might suffer when it begins to fade. She still believes it all to be real and I pray it remains so.

May the truth stay mercifully veiled.

Yours in eternal gratitude,

Lena

My heart turned cold, my head spinning. My mother was still soothing my baby’s cries. I tried to slip my finger into my mouth to trigger a gag reflex, to vomit whatever I had drunk, quietly, so she wouldn’t suspect.

The effort left me drifting in and out of consciousness. Then the memories came flooding.

A bad man, no, not a man, a true monster disguised as one, hurting me, ravishing me. I was paralyzed in fear and shame and pain. The scent of roses grew putrid in the air.

Nine harrowing months followed. Ostracized from my village, abandoned by my father despite my mother’s pleas.

Flashes and fragments, all bleeding into the present. Among roses and poppies, I find only pain.

I had no husband.

There was no Mother Poppy.

The illusion fades; there's only me.