Page 64 of The Oath We Give

“Say you swear.”

We figured out where we were going, but the only garden Rosemary Donahue has now are the flowers I have delivered monthly to her tombstone.

It’s been a while since I last stood here. I run my hand along the top of her grave. The stone is weathered, the letters of her name eroded, a painful reminder of the time that’s passed.

Pink carnations.

“Hey, Rosie girl.”

The warm breeze greets me. A gentle caress of natural air, a hello from beyond the veil of the living. Death and mourning are different for all, but for some reason, I’ve always felt like she’s here with me when I visit.

“You’ve been gone four years now. Doesn’t seem real, does it?”

A familiar feeling gnaws at my gut. My ribs are tightly bound, only allowing me to take tiny, quick breaths. It’s the paper cut along sensitive skin, an unwanted reminder.

It feels like nothing but guilt.

Greedy, time-consuming guilt.

I am alive, and she isn’t.

I wasn’t there when she needed me. I could not save her.

If we switched positions, like the many times I begged for, Rosemary’s life would be in full color. She would have made the most of every breath, every day. Turned even the worst moments into something beautiful, because that’s what she did.

She was a beautiful existence.

The space inside me, the one reserved for Rosie, aches. It’s not a choice; it’s an unwavering fact. She took with her a piece of me that no one will ever have again. It’s hers to keep—I’d never take it away from her.

It took time to realize that moving on, grieving, didn’t take away the love I had for her. I thought if I stayed angry, if I hurt the people that hurt her, it would bring me peace. Chasing revenge only opened up more doors to pain.

I’m not proud of what I did in my mourning, of how I let my self-hatred control me. While the people involved with Rosemary’s death deserved their fate for what they’d done to not only Rosie but all the other girls they’d taken, there’s still a lot I regret.

Mostly, not realizing sooner that healing from her loss wasn’t me trying to forget her. It was a way of honoring her. A way of maybe helping her find peace in the afterlife, knowing I’m okay here without her.

I had this dream after I was released from the ward, the night after Lyra killed Conner Godfrey.

I was watching Rosemary being pulled in two different directions. I could see her existing in this in-between place of solid white nothingness, one arm reaching toward Earth and the other being tugged in the opposite direction.

She was stuck, unable to pass over because of me. She could not let go of her mortal body because she was worried for me.

I was causing her pain by trying to heal my guilt. It was a harsh truth, knowing I’d told myself all of this was for Rosemary, to avenge her death, when in reality, it was just me trying to make amends for not being there for her when she died.

My eyes find the ground that she is entombed by. It’s far too harsh to hold a girl who was too kind and far too gentle.

“When I tell you this, I hope it makes sense. I hope you’re not upset and you know this time I’m doing this for the right reasons.”

There is another breeze, stronger this time, knocking the hood off my head. I shake my head, running a palm across the top of my buzzed hair. She hated when I tried to hide in my hoodies.

In the beginning, breathing hurt without her. Waking up, knowing she’d never open her eyes again, made it physically impossible to inhale and exhale. Like oxygen was a reminder that I was alive and she was not.

I sometimes hate that it’s easier now.

That time has, in fact, made the loss of her hurt less.

It’s also made it more difficult to remember. I recall who she was as a person, what she looked like, and some of the things she’d said. She’s about as real as the voices that come and go in my head. The ones that sometimes take shape and throw themselves along the wall in forms of shadows.

It’s the little things I’ve lost along the way in healing.

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