A Wilting Rose

A Poetic Rose

Possibly worst chapter title ever there! Hehe! Anyway, I'm sorry if my writing is going steadily worse; I think I'm possibly better at writing sad stuff than jolly stuff...?
Anyway, here it is! May I just warn you, it's another short one.
-Buffy (",)

'Hey, watch where you're going, nerd.'

'Oh look, it's Rose, and her oversize nose.'

'Single Point of Failure! What a pleasure...not!'

These words and much worse trailed me round all day like an irritating shadow. Everywhere I went there seemed to be people, people who thoroughly enjoyed tormenting me, shooting words in my direction. I had been suffering this verbal abuse since Year Seven, and it had always penetrated me like a badly shot bullet, causing just enough damage for me to feel agonising pain, but always leaving room for the same thing to happen the next day.

But, for once, I barely noticed. My head was buzzing with thoughts and ideas, swimming around my mind, distracting me from anything and everything I passed. Words leapt into my head, and yet more words, piecing together like a jigsaw puzzle.

I now knew precisely what I was to do. Precisely how to tell the school what I was feeling. How to no longer suffer in painful silence.

I was sat comfortably in my room, having sped-walked back to my house as usual. This time it was only partly due to the bullies that took great pleasure in cornering me on my route back to home. It was also due to the poem I was itching to write.

I switched on the laptop, my fingers tingling with excitement and impatience, my head bursting with ideas. Finally my desk top loaded fully, and I immediately clicked on Microsoft Word. I had been thinking about it since English that day; if I won the school poetry competition, if would be displayed around the school, and everyone could see it.

The page loaded, and I began. Neglecting my homework, ignoring my revision timetable glaring at me from the wardrobe, I wrote. Word after word, stanza after stanza. My feelings poured onto the screen, and I barely noticed anything happening around me.

Eventually, a loud bing interrupted my endeavours. An email. I sighed. Part of me was urging myself to ignore it, to continue writing the poem. It could only be one of those hurtful messages directed at me the other day. But curiosity took hold of me and I clicked onto my inbox.

Hey, why you still alive. You're a geek, and nobody wants geeks hanging around. Go back to planet loser please.

I couldn't help myself. I replied.

Oh please. Why is being intelligent worse than being cruel, shallow and vindictive? Oh, and do remember I like one sugar in my tea, just for when you'll be working for me.

With satisfied smirk, I sent it and returned to my work. I didn't receive a reply.

The hours dwindled away, my fingers relentlessly typing, my mind spilling over with words, rhymes, similes, metaphors. By the the time Mum called up the stairs for dinner, the tips of my fingers which had been skating over the keyboard were positively aching.

I was glad to take a break, especially as Mum had concocted my favourite dish; salmon risotto. It was perfect; exactly the way I had always loved. It was the taste that spilled over my tongue, embracing all my senses, and the loving looks in which my family directed me that made me certain that there was indeed a spark of hope in my life.

When I had cleared away my plate, for once I did not abruptly leave to the solitude of my bedroom. I stayed, recounting my day to my parents, and listening patiently to theirs. I could tell they were surprised; their brow furrowed slightly as, for once, I gave them genuine laughs, genuine smiles. I even was all to eager to have desert, which was an unordinary spectacle. I even wondered at myself as I consumed the chocolate pudding Mum had prepared, wondered how I could have missed out all these years.

Eventually I did excuse myself, and returned to my works on the laptop, determined to submit my entry before the day was out.

I worked harder, and yet harder, and then I finished typing. My fingers came to a halt, and I let out a breath I hadn't realised I'd been holding. Would it be good? Good enough to win?

I grasped the mouse and scrolled up to the very top, so I could reread it, as though I was reading it for the first time and deciding whether it would suffice.

'Fatty!' they call,
'Hey, freak!
'Why don't you come over, eh?
'You teachers' pet, you geek.'

I stumble, flushing,
My body turning cold,
They laugh but I continue,
Determined not to be controlled.

A familiar sensation comes,
Of tears stabbing my eyes,
A foot suddenly materialises,
On the hard ground I now lie.

My book tumbles out of my bag,
And falls onto the floor.
It is picked up by someone,
Who remarks, 'what a bore!'

'Look at this guys, look at her!
'Look at the nerd round here!
'Bet you don't have a life!'
She adds with a cruel sneer.

I scramble to my feet,
Reaching for my book.
It is held out of my reach,
With an ice-hearted look.

Another snide voice,
Decides to add to the din,
'Just throw all her worthless stuff,
'Right into the bin!'

The tears stream down now,
And they are burning hot.
Someone with some conscience says,
'Oh, let's not.'

In the commotion that follows,
And of me they get bored,
I grasp my novel,
And run out of the horde.

My breathing is shallow,
My eyes ruby red,
I slide down a wall and sit,
My energy drained and dead.

As I sit there on my own,
My thoughts fill with sorrow,
But I've grown used to it now,
And it will happen tomorrow.

It was a moment of pleasure,
In my despair,
Like I wasn't human,
And they just did not care.

Have you noticed I am no longer,
In the present tense,
That's because I could no longer,
See any sense.

The words, like knives,
Punctured just too deep,
They morphed into nightmares,
To haunt me in my sleep.

And soon my fingers,
Were on the door,
I just couldn't take it,
Anymore.

Deciding that if I worked anymore my fingers would drop off, I clicked onto the school website, and submitted the poem.

I just hoped I'd win.

A/N The poem was one I myself wrote for a contest staged at my school. I know it's probably not up to Rose's standards, so just bear with and pretend it is!!
-Buffy (",)