The Writing Retreat(33)

Roza gave a sharp nod, as if she were a doctor whose diagnosis had been confirmed. “She projected her guilt and shame onto you. You became first irritating, then repulsive. She told herself that it had to be you, that it was your fault.”

“Yeah.” I rubbed my eyes. “Maybe that’s true.”

We were quiet, staring at the fire, which crackled and spit.

“You know what?” Roza said. “People who don’t know pain—deep pain—are bad writers. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“I don’t know. I guess that makes sense.” I’d expected my confession would make me feel relieved. But instead I just felt sad and exhausted.

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned,” Roza went on, “it’s that the worst conditions are the most conducive to the best work. I wrote my first book sitting next to my dying friend, who was literally rotting away. The smell…” She closed her eyes. “All of it was horrific. And every day I brought a little notebook with me and the words just poured out. My anger and helplessness connected me to something, a powerful and primal energy. And the only corridor to it was through utter despondency, utter desperation.”

I nodded, setting the empty glass on the table. The pep talk was only making me more miserable.

“Darling.” Roza was suddenly gripping both of my hands. “Wren did you a favor. She gave you a gift. She killed you, in a sense—because of her fears, her confusion about how she felt. She had to make you dead to her. It was the only way she could survive, going back to her buttoned-up little life.” Roza’s eyes narrowed. “Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I said, but the words weren’t quite making sense. What had Wren felt towards me? What had I felt for her, for that matter? It had burned out so quickly: a match struck, bright and brilliant before crumpling into a dark, bent piece of nothingness.

“So,” Roza went on, squeezing my hands. “Now you’re dead, trapped in the underworld. You feel empty, stuck. And you know what? It’s actually the most powerful place to be. You need only reach out to the pain and grab it, use it. But if you don’t?” Her expression turned mournful. “Well, then you stay dead. And in effect she’ll be killing you twice. I don’t know if you can come back from that, dear. I really don’t.”

I stared into her eyes, mesmerized. A tiny speck of hope, no larger than a piece of dust, floated through my mind.

Maybe Roza had the answer. Maybe this pain wasn’t for nothing. Maybe I just needed to mold it into something beautiful.

After a moment she let go of my hands, patted them, and sat back. “My goodness. It’s going to be time for cocktails soon. Why don’t you go freshen up.” She got to her feet, then waited expectantly, looking down at me.

Startled, I stood and followed her to the red door.

“Tell me one more thing.” Roza paused, her hand on the doorknob. “At the bar that night… when you tried to talk to her. When she practically spit at you.” Her voice was mild but in the dim light of the entranceway, her eyes glowed like a cat’s. “Did you…?”

Did you push her?

The answer had not only been locked in the basement, but buried deep under the floor. I hadn’t brought it out and looked at it properly since that night.

Don’t touch me. Wren had jerked back from me, already much too close to the step, her pencil-thin heels only inches away. And I registered the step, didn’t I? I knew what would happen. And yet a deep rage reared, bubbling up into my right arm. Something took over my body, something primitive, lashing out from a place of complete power-lessness.

I’d reached out again, my thumb pressing firmly into her upper arm, my fingers curling loosely, of no real use when she started to fall backwards.

I’d instantly regretted it. The horror at the sight of her blood was connected to the horror at myself, that I was capable of such violence.

I’d waited for the message from Wren, directly or through a disgusted friend. That it was my fault, I’d done it, I’d pushed her. But no one ever said anything. It was more like they just edged away from me, feeling rather than knowing there was something rotten in my core.

I’d been ready to take the small, secret act to my grave.

But now, returning Roza’s clear gaze, I nodded.

With a satisfied smile, she opened the door. Maybe I was dazed from the Unicum, or reeling from the relief in spilling an unshareable secret—but in that moment, Roza looked resplendent, radiant, a gleaming angel descended from on high. “Good luck, my little spider.” She squeezed my shoulder as I passed through, then shut the door behind me.

Back in my room, I sat at the desk, watching the sun lowering in the sky. My brain still buzzed, my mind moving through dark, tangled currents.

Roza had seen the ugliest side of me, one that I myself was afraid to look at. More than that, she wanted to see it. She drew it out of me.

I couldn’t leave. Not when my idol was the only one who truly accepted me.

Roza had given me the key. You need only reach out to the pain and grab it, use it. I remembered my story, the one Ursula had sent to Roza, about two little girls in a thick and tangled wood, wandering into a different time, a different place. Turning at the sound of something lurching towards them in the dark.

It hadn’t been made up. It was a real experience. A traumatizing event that led to my best work so far: the short story that had given me entrance to Blackbriar.