Rose Among Thorns

1-The feeling

Rose pov:

I sit frozen at my desk, dreading the inevitable moment the bell rings. Any second now. The end of the school year feels like the final toll of freedom for everyone else, but for me, it's the start of something far worse. Ringggg. The shrill sound reverberates through the room, and as if on cue, the entire class leaps up, chairs scraping loudly across the floor. Their voices rise in a chorus of excitement, everyone chattering about their plans for the summer—beach trips, parties, late-night hangouts.

I remain seated, staring at the chipped corner of my desk, wishing I could disappear. While they're counting down to their freedom, I'm counting down to my sentence. No more school until September means no more escape. No more hiding in classrooms, no more pretending that homework is the reason I stay late. Just Beatrice. And the house. All summer long.

The room empties around me. I'm the last one left, and even the hallway sounds are fading as students rush toward their adventures. With a sigh, I push my chair back and force myself to stand. There's no point in lingering. I grab my backpack and head out, knowing I need to get to work.

The walk to the diner is short, but it feels longer today, like every step drags me closer to something I can't quite name, something heavy sitting in my chest. When I reach "The Fallen Star," the familiar neon sign flickers slightly as it hums above the entrance. The sight should calm me, but today it doesn't.

The bell above the door jingles as I step inside, and before I can even take a breath, I'm almost knocked over by Ava, my best friend and fellow server. She's juggling way too many plates, a chaotic whirl of arms and dishes.

"Hi, Rose! Could you grab table five for me? I'm drowning here," she says breathlessly, flashing me a quick smile before rushing off again.

"Sure," I manage to reply, though the smile I return doesn't quite reach my eyes. I slip on my apron, tying it hastily around my waist, and make my way over to table five.

It's a group of girls, maybe twelve or thirteen, giggling and whispering. Their excitement is palpable, and it hits me all at once—they're probably out on their own for the first time, experiencing that exhilarating taste of independence. I pause for a second, just watching them. The way they laugh so easily, the way their eyes light up when they talk about nothing and everything. I wonder what that must feel like, to have moments like that. To be carefree, to have memories that don't weigh you down like anchors.

I shake the thought off and take their orders. They don't even notice me, lost in their own world, and I can't help but feel a pang of longing for something I've never really had.

The rest of my shift passes in a blur of routine. The usual customers, the usual tasks. I go through the motions like a machine, wiping down tables, refilling coffee, plastering on a smile that I've perfected over time. But beneath it all, there's this gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach. A heaviness that's been growing since I left school. I can't explain it, but something feels off. Something big is coming.

The last time I had this feeling, Beatrice—my mother, though I can't call her that—had a blowup with her then-boyfriend. I don't even remember what started it, but it ended with both of them beating me. The bruises lasted for weeks. I spent that entire weekend curled up on the floor of my room, too scared to move, too hurt to do anything but wait for the pain to fade.

She's not really my mother. Not in the way that matters. She's Beatrice. Miss Keller, if she's feeling formal. I can only call her "Mom" on rare occasions, and only when she's in an exceptionally good mood. That's not often.

"Hey, what's up with you? You look... out of it," Ava says, startling me out of my thoughts. She's standing by the counter, eyes narrowed in concern as she looks at me. She knows something's wrong. She always knows, even when I don't say anything. But we've played this game before. She asks; I deflect.

"I'm fine," I say, my voice quieter than I intended. The lie feels sour on my tongue, but it's the only thing I can say.

Ava's face softens, but she doesn't press. She never does. I think she knows there's more going on at home than I let on, but she doesn't have any proof. Not the kind you need to go to the police, anyway. Sometimes she sneaks me extra food when she thinks I haven't eaten, or a first aid kit when she notices the cuts and bruises. She never asks for details, but she gives what she can.

The truth is, I don't know how to tell her. How to explain that the place where I'm supposed to feel safe is the place I dread the most. How to explain that summer break means weeks of walking on eggshells, weeks of waiting for the next explosion, the next moment when Beatrice's temper will flare and I'll be the one caught in the crossfire.

I clock out and leave the diner as the sun sets, casting long shadows over the street. That feeling from earlier? It's still there, curling in my gut, whispering that something's coming. And it's not going to be good.

I hope it's a bit good I will try to update as soon as possible.

928 words