Blossoming

Chapter 1

"In my experiences, there is no such thing as love. There is the artificial concept of having such intense feelings for someone that you translate them as the fictitious romantic ideal of love, but in reality all your feelings truly amount to is simply that, feelings. Maybe there is a such thing as love, but there is no such thing as true love. This concept shoved into children's faces from the day they are born of true love can be used synonymously with the concept of unconditional love. There is no such thing as unconditional love.
"I love you if you continue being beautiful."
"I love you if you have sex with me."
"I love you if you have money."
"I love you if you are the perfect child."
"I love you if you respect my decisions."
"I love you if you share my values and opinions."
The list is endless. Wether in a relationship between someone and their significant other or between relatives, there are always stipulations to how long the love lasts. Perfect relationships can never be real. There will always be someone better, in looks, how much money they have, how smart they are. Our inherit human nature of comparisons continuously show to be the fatal flaw of our species. We can never be satisfied, there is always one more step upward.

If I had to describe the ideal "soul mate" for myself, it would have to be death. There is no other thing in the world who could fulfill the ideals of the perfect relationship. Death is not conditional, when it is your time you die. There is never anyone death could choose over you, death is final and permanent. Never will you ever doubt a commitment, death can't leave you. Once you are truly dead, death never leaves you. There is no need to change yourself, death still chooses you for being you. There is no stronger force in the world than death, it is the only thing stronger than love."

________________________

F
The red letter leapt out of the page in front of me, practically knocking me out of my seat. The first assignment of my senior year and I had failed. English had been the only class I could actually feel like, well, not a failure. My teacher, Mr. Kington, had proudly smacked the paper down on my desk. There was nothing else written on the paper, just the letter, F.
"You look confused, Miss Smith," Mr. Kingston practically spat in my face. "Maybe next time you will actually follow my instructions and write about the assigned topic," he sneered, pointing to the words scribbled onto his chalkboard:
"Describe in your own words, your definition of true love, and who your ideal soulmate would be."

And that was the moment I knew senior year was going to be the worst year of my life.