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Colors swooped and swirled behind his closed eyelids sending him back to when he met her; a memory sweet and sour at the same time. The music seemed to never end. This memory, o this memory was older then anything he could remember, back when he was young. Youth was cruel to him, luckily only dull memories remand. He is now 98 years old. Anything he could remember was a message sent from angles. He had Alzheimer’s, the only clear memory he had was of her. This he, he has a name it is Thomas Montswell and this she had a name too. To him her name was sweeter then the overly sugary pudding they served at the nursing home, Rosemary Clat. His story is a story many wish of hearing and few have ever heard. A story of love, lost and betrayal are only a few pieces of his life.
He was a small scrawny boy, thin as a toothpick and as tall as house. His family lived on a small farm, barley big enough to support the small family. What was a small family in the 1900s in a fairly large family today; he lived with his 3 sisters and 2 brothers. He was the oldest and got all the blame. His father was not a kind man a cruel one many had said. Thomas was beaten for anything that happened. If there was a drought,
“Crack” the whip would sound, by anything I mean anything.
One day the day he had met Rosemary, she had changed his lonely life. Momma and father had gather up the young children and took them to church, leaving Thomas behind. Missing church was a great sin to him. An uneasy feeling had filled his stomach. He clambered up the rickety stairs read a book to calm down. Half way up the stairs he heard a shrill voice calling at the door.
“Hello” the thick accent crackled. He was confused and limped down the stairs, his leg had been recently beaten and sores and wells were forming. He opened the door daring himself, scared. Her beauty hit him. Her face was soft and a deep cocoa, the same cocoa color as his mother hot chocolate. Her black hair was pulled into a tight bun, her face flushed from hours of sun. A ragged dress hung on her shoulders. She was like no one he had ever seen before.
“Sir my name s Rosemary, Rosemary Clat I am looking for some work” she quivered fidgeting with the hem of the raggedy dress. He was soft spoken and had what to say. With the power of love over coming him, he gave in even though his family would never accept her.
“Miss you are welcome to stay here” he uttered awkwardly, paralyzed by the fear of his horrid father.
“Sir I couldn’t be more joyous for this splendid opportunity” she murmured. He just nodded as he moved aside to letting young rosemary shuffle into the cozy farmhouse. He showed her to a spare room. It was then that he noticed her shoes were worn down to the souls of her feet. She was a young girl 18 at most, born into a family of migrant workers. She ran away to live her own life. She would have never guessed how she would end. Days, weeks, months, years went by the family never suspect he was in love the slave girl, the family would never guess she was in love with him. They knew of each others love but vowed to never, never tell a soul. Life was too hard and god only knew what would happen.
His family had gone out for dinner leaving Rosemary and Thomas at home. He wanted to take her out, for a real dinner, he knew there was a risk; but did not know the risk would be as big as it was. Just as the young couple thought they were safe his family passed by the window. They were flabbergasted to see this atrocity. They dragged them from the restraint by their legs and threw them on the ground as if they were rubbish. Farther and mother were both ill tempered by thoughtless amounts of alcohol. Father hadn’t had a clue what he was doing. He grasped the whip and plunged it in the blazing fire, covering it in burning embers. He whipped her in till she couldn’t move then brutally stabbed her to death. Thomas had witnessed it all; his mother had forced him to. Tears flooded down his face, his only love had been killed right in front of his own eyes by his own father.
He never loved again. He left home and joined the army, wishing to be killed, to never live again. She was his life and when she died a part of him died too. He still wakes up in the night screaming,
“Rosemary! Rosemary! No don’t die! Rosemary I love you!”She had left him, screaming I LOVE YOU.