I remember the roses. Mother would grow all sorts and colors in our humble third story apartment building. They absolutely littered what few windows we had. I was fortunate enough to have the largest window and therefore did not have to suffer their smell in my room – as much.

But still it would persist. It was the sort of smell that invaded your very air. It took up everything. It was suffering in its purest form. And mother treated them like her precious children, tended to them like a dotting grandmother. There were nights where I would go without supper but she made sure they were watered each and every day.

Red roses took up the windows in the kitchen and the living space. Every day when I returned from my studies or the café I would be assaulted by their overwhelming smell and the sheer intensity of their red hue. Sometimes, when I returned particularly exhausted, I would receive the fright of my life when I opened the door and saw the violent crime scene in my home. Blood, everywhere. Spilling from the window sill, splattered across the coffee table. Sometimes I would be on the verge of tears before I realized they were only mother's roses.

In those times I would wish it had been blood.

My mother kept a window garden of white roses in my room. When I was a child I had apparently thrown a fit about having roses in my room again. A hatred that started young, I could only assume. Of course mother would never budge on the idea of having a single room without her precious flowers, so she compromised.

I would get the room with the largest window and mother could have a window garden of roses. I did not much care about having a room with a view, but with the flowers on the outside I would at least be free of their smell at night when I closed the window.

But it did mean I would never spend much time in my room during the day. In fact, until the day I was packing, I couldn't remember the last time I was in my room for longer than a few minutes.

"Samantha, darling, must you insist on dragging out this little performance of yours?"

I had been carefully assorting my clothing. Dresses, skirts, business suits, socks, underwear, bras. Carefully assorting them by color before placing them into my suitcase. I remember holding one of my night-dresses, something bright yellow and silky, when she said those words. I stuffed the article of clothing a little rougher than I had with the others.

"This is not a performance, mother."

I tried to control my tone around her; she was skilled with taking attitude and turning it back on you. But it grew gradually harder as the years dragged on. Lately I had not been able to have a normal conversation with her without it erupting into arguments over minor, petty things.

And it only grew worse over the years following my decision to move to America for graduate school.

"I was serious when I told you and I am serious now."

Mother threw her hands in the air, as if I was a lost cause she had just then decided to give up on. It was a gesture she had done rather frequently.

"You do not even know anyone there, Samantha."

I picked through more articles of clothing. I tried not to breathe too deeply, least I take in more of the pungent scent of her roses. It was the last thing I needed right then.

"I'll be fine, mother."

"Your friends are here, darling. Your family is here."

I tried and failed to hold back the scoff. Family? She calls me and her, trapped in this small, suffocating nightmare, family?

I would miss my friends. Dearly miss them. But I could not disguise the pain they put me through whenever they talked lovingly about their mothers and fathers, their significant others. Relationships I did not understand. Could not.

I had many of those friends since I was younger, but as we grew older the difference in ours lives grew more apparent. Like a great wall had been built up between them and I, growing wider and taller by the day.

I couldn't bear it. And as I neared the end of my schooling here, I knew there was no other alternative.

I had to leave.

To mother, I answered, "I'll make new friends. I hear americans are very outspoken and upfront about their feelings. I'm sure I will get along with them just fine."

I could feel mother's eyes glaring white hot daggers into my back. And I had to admit that part of me enjoyed it. A small, secret thrill whenever I would set her off and make her drop her usual calm and superior air. Most of my life I had been in awe of her, intimidated by her. Now I knew better. Even with all her Knowledge, she was no different than anyone else with issues.

It was just that her issues had a literal potential to explode in your face.

"Watch your tone with me, young lady. Whatever charade you are intending, you are still under my roof."

What part of this did she not understand? I stopped packing as I wondered. Was she even listening to my responses?

"Mother, I am going to school in America. My flight leaves early tomorrow morning so I am packing before I find a hotel near the airport. If you do not intend to help me finish, I would ask that you kindly leave. I still have much to do."

Pop. The bulb in my cute little Boston Terrier lamp on the nightstand shattered like I had hit it with blunt force. Of course, I knew better. I turned my full attention to my mother.

It had been foolish of me not to realize it was one of her 'off' days. Her dark, curly hair was in disheveled, uneven tangles that hung past her shoulders. Her fair skin already had a sheen of sweat as she breathed in rapid little gasps. I met her blue and bloodshot eyes. While they had the appearance of some foreign creature, something that would not think twice about harming me, I remained calm. It was nothing I hadn't seen before.

"Mother, the garden needs tending."

She raised a hand to me. I winced out of reflex. Behind me my radio turned on and rapidly switched between different stations of static. I held her hate-filled gaze. I stood my ground.

"Mother. The garden needs tending."

I risked movement, gesturing with a single finger towards the window garden of white roses behind her.

Her head twitched. She remained facing me as her gaze flashed between the garden and I, her eyes almost bugging out of her head. I waited. Saying it any more would only risk losing importance, making her revert to something even worse. I had my fill of those kind of failures.

Finally, she turned away from me and sauntered over to her garden. As soon as her shaking hands found the ivory petals it was like watching her whole body loosen. She knelt over them, stroking them, and if I listened closely I would hear her softly coo the words:

"Oh my lovelies. My sweet, sweet, lovelies. Never betray me. Never deceive me. Never leave me."

I did not bother to try and listen. I went back to packing, forgoing my once patient and careful procedure. I wouldn't have long before she snapped back to reality. Sometimes she would be back to 'normal', other times she would be back to 'off'. Still more times she would be worse.

And I had my fill of being there to find out.

I passed mother's room as I was leaving. She was still tending to her garden so she did not hear me leave my own room. Until she returned to reality I was more or less alone. If I wanted to I could go into her room, see what she never let me see, and if I was quick enough she would never be the wiser. I had been in this position many times before in the past, and every time I resisted temptation out of fear of mother finding ways to garner the truth. But this time was different.

This was my last chance.

I would not be returning. Whatever uncertainties lay in my path I knew without a shred of doubt that I would never return to this place again. If I wanted to see what disturbing skeletons mother kept in her closet this would be my only chance to find out. Maybe it was piles of valuables and trophies she still kept from her criminal youth. Maybe it was some magic book or other such nonsense given to mother by the Knowers. Maybe it was father.

I turned away from her door. Strode through the rooms of blood red flowers towards the front door. Her room was locked, had to be, and I had neither the time nor the patience to try and find the key before mother 'waked'.

It was probably just more roses. Thorny, black roses as wicked and twisted as her heart. I didn't want to see anymore. I didn't want to know anymore.

The Knowers. Knowledge. Magic. Witches.

I had my fill.