Free The Last Darling by Cloud Buchholz Page A

rage as much as lust. He wasn’t a particularly attractive man, nor was he ambitious, funny, nice, or wealthy. When he attempted to count the qualities he did possess, he could not find a single one that would convince Rose to stay with him. His reasoning reached only so far before his jealously took hold. He called her ugly and worthless, shouting other incoherent profanities while he slapped her face, thighs, and breasts. He told her that no one else would ever love her because she was hideous and pathetic. He tore one of the rings from her nipple and repeated the phrase until she sobbed and shook with fear. Then, just to be sure that no one else would love her, he took a long, serrated knife and cut deep gashes into her breasts and thighs so that her grotesqueness reflected his insecurity. When he was satisfied, he calmly walked back inside, took a piss, then curled into bed and fell asleep.
    Rose, covered in blood and tears, swung for another two hours in the darkness. When she was certain her husband had passed out, she yanked, kicked, and fought until the wooden rafter snapped and she fell to the cement. She grabbed what was left of her shirt and pants, leaving the house without loosening the ropes knotted around her wrists. She stumbled barefoot for two miles until reaching a clinic where she collapsed – her injuries not life threatening, but very permanent.
    She spoke in short sentences perforated by long pauses. She did not implicate her husband and, in fact, had difficulty speaking her own name. The nurses, unable to indentify or comprehend her, gave Rose a box of crayons and a white piece of paper, telling her to write her name. She did as they instructed and found the act soothing. She kept the crayons and paper next to her bed, scribbling and sketching when the pain was particularly noticeable – a habit that would stay with her until her death. Her wounds would require a minor surgery, twenty-four stitches, and careful monitoring.
    After her recovery, which lasted nearly two weeks, she withdrew every cent from the joint bank account and left the state, traveling as far from her husband as she could afford. Due to her rebellious youth, she never finished high school and had difficulty finding work. Her contagious smile and sweet-tempered wit made her well suited for bartending, and for some years she survived on quarters and crumpled bills. She never left the safety behind the counter and, though she flirted brazenly, she never touched, nor was touched by, the patrons. During a break or slow shift, she took a drawing pad from her bag and sketched the faces of strangers.
    An old and friendly biker saw her drawings and asked her to sketch a portrait of his friend who had died years before from liver disease. She accepted – drawing, erasing, and re-drawing what he described to her. He was so impressed with her portrait that he had it tattooed on his arm. The tattoo artist was equally impressed and off-handedly wished the unknown artist worked for him. The biker happily relayed the request.
    When Rose heard the offer, she quit bartending and traveled to the tattoo parlor, which was three cities over. She was excited at the prospect of being paid to draw; however, when she arrived, the tattoo artist had no idea who she was or the position she had been promised. He conceded that many of his offers were made absentmindedly and almost always worthless. He was impressed with her portraits and apologetic of the situation, but he simply didn’t have the money to hire another artist.
    His sympathy overtook his budget, as it often did, and she was hired as a temporary receptionist. Her role, which at first only entailed answering the phone and scheduling, soon encompassed accounting, marketing, concepting, and budgeting. Her cleverness and business savvy proved to be more useful than any of the employees realized. The tattoo parlor, which was consistently on the brink of bankruptcy, was revitalized and, with Rose’s