This story was written on July 23, 2020, for my Creative Writing class. If you by chance recognize this document from school, please do not disclose my real name. I will report you for giving out personal information without my consent.

She used to love to hike. Sometimes, Rosemary could almost enjoy those memories. The gentle whispers of the wind played with her ample-length brunette hair, tickling her bangs against her forehead as it whispered fables to her. The snow beneath her boots used to sigh in reply, as if teasing the wind for being such an innocent poet, influencing the world with its caress rather than being swayed by the stomping of hiking boots. And then there were the sounds of birds singing songs of love to one another in the spring, the rustle of the trees, the warm kisses of the sun on her skin, which was slick with sunscreen to keep its warm mouth from singing her.

But Rosemary would never hike again. The doctor had ordered her not to. Old habits had caught up to her, the bottles each night welcoming and able to drown her in pleasant confusion before she sank onto the couch in a confused, exhausted depression. Strange was it that Rosemary hadn't slept in her bed in almost eight years – tonight had been the first time, and she had tossed and turned, exhausted beyond belief but unable to sleep without the comfort of the acrid drink in her stomach, soothing away the pain in her gut.

Respiratory depression. Heart murmurs. Those four words had ended the career she'd worked so hard for – to be at the top of her mountain-survival class. She'd never been a heavy drinker before that time in her life, when such shame and guilt had sprouted up within her that she would drown. She could lose herself in an ocean, inhaling salt water and letting it carry her down to the floor, until she slept peacefully again. But not anymore. Not per the orders of the caregiver that visited her house every day.

Among many oddities, she reminisced as the keys turned in the door, was her irrational fear of the man. Surely she, a woman, was more justified in being afraid of victimization – that was what everyone around her seemed to believe. Men were the aggressors. Women were the victims. Of course, no one said these things aloud, but they all believed them deep down, even if by the contrary they denied such beliefs.

A tear trickled down her cheek as she fingered the small plastic cube that was her comfort; it was a child's toy, but kept her from breaking down from the constant thoughts in her head. Rosemary was living proof that such beliefs were oversimplified. Her hands trembled as the man entered her bedroom with warm food. He had told her yesterday that if she didn't start eating something soon, she would be transferred to a place where she would be tube-fed. Of course he was concerned with her health – he had no idea of the animal he took care of.

He wordlessly helped her sit up. He knew not to talk to her too often; she would hardly, if ever, reply. Her tongue was a block in her mouth, a wooden peg unable to articulate the words she wanted to say. To someone. To anyone. I'm sorry. I'm sorry for ruining your life. For stepping over you in order to get ahead.

But there was no one to appeal to. And who would believe her? People such as her never apologized. Stone-headed, cold monsters they were, never bothering to look at the consequences of their actions. That was what Rosemary had always believed herself, up until she had been in that position. What no one seemed to understand was that she didn't need to look at the consequences of her actions; the forest would whisper it to her. What were once sweet, innocent myths spoken by the wind was now cold condemnation. What was once the sarcastic groan of the snow was now a warning. We know. Even if no one else does. Even if you two are the only ones who know the truth about who you are...we are witnesses.

The caregiver brought the spoon close to her mouth; she was weak from hunger, too weak to keep it between her own fingers. Humiliation and the savage growl of her stomach twined simultaneously in her body. She took the bite of oatmeal and chewed, forcing herself to ignore the gag reflex that came from having not eaten in over a week. His eyes were purely concerned for her, deep blue observers to how she truly was. He'd asked her sister why she'd tried to drown herself with the sour drink that night. Nobody had understood; they hadn't even known she was prone to drinking.

Wordlessly, he allowed her to eat as much of the oatmeal as she could, then picked her up and carried her outside. He knew, didn't he? But that was impossible. Someone who knew what she had done, by becoming such a wicked abuser and then claiming to be the victim, would have never treated her with such gentleness. No one treated people like her with care, nor should they. Had she the strength, she would have forced him to leave her alone, for what if she took advantage of him, too?

Only a week had they been together. Rosemary ached for that warm touch she had refused from everyone else, the way the caregiver kindly regarded her as a friend though they barely spoke to one another. His actions communicated so much more than she could have ever imagined. At her most vulnerable, he refused to harm her.

That will all change. He carried her out to her garden, the flowers' fragrance strong and sweet in her nose. Whispers of the leaves echoed around her as he set her down beside him, allowing her to close her eyes and rest. Rosemary listened to the sound of the trees, her brow furrowing. They always had something to say to her.

The message was no longer We know. Or perhaps it was; Rosemary was unsure, for their voices blended together and said many things to her. Now it was a gentle, kindly, fatherly voice. Go on. Tell. He will listen.

Her caregiver's eyes were kind, the tattoo of a cross on his wrist gazing at her as though it, too, was urging her. Was it a cross, nullifying her? Or a cross, nullifying her sins? Though she had believed in such salvific grace when she was young, only now did it truly seep into her heart. Warmth flowed through her body, and tears stung her eyes.

"I have something to tell you," she said, her voice shaking. "About last week, and why I did what I did."

"Tell me," he said gently. "I'm here."

I'm here.