Rose Madder

Pink. It had to be pink. Red seemed somehow grotesque and rude.

Whenever I read a book I feel inclined to include my two cents in the margins. Usually, “red” is my color choice for doing so, but Rose Madder would permit no such thing. The violence of the deep shade would not be allowed to touch its pages less I proclaim myself an enemy; an enemy who loved talking to people right... up... close.

Stephen King’s books make me... aware of my surroundings. They draw me into the story and when I look up from the pages of his world, my senses seem somehow enhanced. After reading Rose Madder I felt my senses sharpen like so many thorns bursting free of a rose’s stem.

Why are there so many crickets in my home lately...?

It is one twenty four in the afternoon. The sun is high overhead and a cool breeze washes over me as I sit outside marveling at the deep green leaves of the ficus trees that line our old wooden fence. Yellow buds from the steadfast willow float aimlessly through the air and land on the porch amongst its familiars. It is warm outside, even on this November afternoon, but a chill runs through me nonetheless as passages from the novel envelope me like words being whispered in my ear. Moments later I realize that this is the first King novel I have completed while there is still daylight out. This unsettles me.

In the past, when I complete one of his books I can fall asleep, and though my dreams might be plagued with the visions that float out of the pages, I can wake up to the sunlight as it streams in through the bedroom window in soft, welcoming waves.

My fingers twitch and an unwavering frown sits upon my lips. I do something I have not done since I was seven years old. I pinch myself, half expecting the slight sting not to hurt; half expecting this day to be a dream. The pain reminds me that I am very much awake and another twinge of fright crawls across my flesh like some grotesque insect scuttling across your foot.

Upon awakening this morning, the first thing I grabbed was the novel, even as I was still finding my way out of the previous night’s disturbing dream. I vaguely remember scribbling something down. Later, as I closed the book, I flipped through the first few pages and realized I had indeed written something

(in pink)

on the dedication page of Rose Madder.

"She knew she would die alone on that cold December night, under the watchful gaze of those jagged, salient stars."

All at once I feel like crying. Silently, I vow never to finish reading one of Mr. King’s novels while there is still daylight in the sky. It makes his world much too real. Much too Rosie Real.

As irony would have it, for the first time I use a deep red wine to toast a character. As the wine stains my pink lips, transforming them into a sensuous mauve

(rose madder)

and the remnants of the liquid settle to the bottom of the glass, I wonder how much of Mr. King’s books become reality after they are read.

I dedicate this toast to you, Rose Madder, for I am far too familiar with the madness of your troubled mind.

And somewhere, a plethora of crickets chirp contentedly....