Twisted Rose

Chapter 3- The Enemy

Sunlight bursted into my cornea, messing with my sight and sending substantial amounts of teary film flowing from my eyes. I felt a comforting hand on my shoulder, it's fingers long and slender; Franklin. I swatted his hand away, suddenly feeling I had to play the tough guy, the one who knew what they were doing... The one who had to know what they were doing, the kind of person I was the complete opposite of.

I straightened my back and gently fixed my dress, slowly lifting the white fabric to lay gently in sync with the others. Once my eyes grew accustom to the bright rays of the sun, I quickly glanced around the garden, acutely aware of the searing hot stares melting my skin to my bones.

Bright blue morning glories, sun-yellow chrysanthemums, violet impatients, and dozens of others grazed the back lawn infront of the patio. Massive willow trees dotted about the area, flapping their branches against the light October breeze. The lawn was trimmed to perfection; an inch off the ground. A thick foundation of limestone served at the floor to the patio. Several barrels of flowers centered the glass tables; coelia, cyclamen, paronychia, aster, and aruncus. Their perfume radianted through the air, coating every area in a light fragrance. After a second or two of admiring the scenery, I turned and headed toward the breakfast table, where three intolerable people waited to feast upon me.

Fairylyn was the one I noticed first; who wouldn't notice someone sending death related glares directly at you? Her brown hair, as always, was in a tight bun, and her eyes, enflamed by dislike, were shooting daggers at me. The plain red cotton dress that she wore, except a few encrested diamonds scattered about, was the most atrocious thing our seamstress, Lydia, has ever made. Rusted red fabric, ugly neck and hand collars, even the buttons were hard to peer at; tainted silver with a loose painter's hand.

Bethann was bowing her head low against the table top, her arms were folded symmetrically on her lap, brown hair neatly tucked behind her slender pointed ears. She was very slight and slender; only weighing half of what Fairylyn weighed. Bethann's chest, which was as flat as Fairylyn's temper, exceded to her smallness. Her plate, which was halfway empty, was pushed off to the side of her head. She gave no signal that she awknowledged me as I entered.

Califlower, with her legs up high on the chair opposite of her, twirled a handful of pigtails. Her green dress lower than I actually thought it was; barely reaching mid-thigh and showing whatever she thought she had in a low V-neck top. Her lips were painted a bright bubble gum pink.

"So," Califlower purred, "What finally brings the majesty out of her quarters?" She held out her hand and examined her nails.

"A bitchy group of people." I answer bristlely, watching as her dark unreadable eyes squint into slits.

"To be 'bitchy', that must imply we spoke to you. And if you've failed to notice, your not to be wasted breath on." I stiffly turned around and faced Fairylyn, my anger and blood pressure rising by the glares.

"Ah, and I remember it cleary as much as I remember a specific night when father came to get you for a dance, and he found you and...? Who was it again? The Princess of Fauterlane?" I reminded her of that ghastly night, the only night I can remember having power over her, watching her being humiliated and stripped down to a mere speck of dust covering a royal piece of furniture in father's trophy case.

Fire seemed to burn all around her, consuming every outline, every hair that had fell loose from her bun, every loose thread that came from that god-awful dress she wore, and every thought she has ever thought of me. It all seemed to burn into one big giant ball that was aimed right at me, at my very existance, with only one intention; destruction.

"Oh, you little harlot, thinking you can prance about charming men with a demonic power that no one with a clear head can fathom! Everyone in the country is talking about it; 'Oh, who is that witch that romances and seduces men by her sheer beauty alone? Can she produce other powers, ones that can harm us? Should we throw her out, or watch and wait to see what King George must do?' But you know what I think? I think you are a witch, one that has no heart and likes to show off everywhere she goes. One that steals what everyone else whats just to see them suffer." By now Fairylyn's whole bun was in dissaray; bits and clumps of hair flying every which way.