Roses in her hands

Senior Year, late September

I've had it with my foster parent's attitudes about me and my SM. As soon as I turn 18, I'm outta here with my boy and I'm never looking back. Bye, Felicia!

17-year-old, Twitter

Rue sits down beside me during lunch today and begins to draw on her left wrist with a sharpie like she usually does. She doesn't play cards with her other friends, anymore because the majority of them graduated last year. The rest stopped talking to her, which is a bitch move in my opinion, so she's back to sitting with us.

I look over to smile at her and ask her what's up when I notice her birth-tattoo. The way she's angled herself, I can't quite see what the numbers are. And since she's always worn long sleeves, I've never gotten a glimpse at them.

"Hey, what's your SM date?" I wonder.

"Tis today, believe it or no'," she looks at me. "Wha' about you?"

I almost choke on a nacho and wordlessly roll up the left sleeve of my jacket to show her my wrist. She stills when she sees the numbers.

9.30.17

Rue looks at me with wide eyes, almost as if she can't believe that I'm her soul mate. I began to think that maybe she doesn't want me, but what she says immediately stops that train of thought.

"'Ello, love," her words are strangled like she's choking on them. "Waited fer ya fer a long while, I have."

Suddenly, tears are running down Rue's face. The empathetic nature that I have always struggled with tosses her emotions at me. I pull Rue close to my chest in a hug, understanding what she's feeling right now.

"It's okay, darlin'," I murmur. "I have you, now."

It's a little strange to think about. The fact that the girl I've known as a friend for a year is now my soulmate. Well, I guess she's always been my soulmate. I've only just now realized is all.

Sometimes I'm struck by how small she truly is. Even now, as I'm holding her in my arms, I can feel her delicate frame, feel how easy it would be to break her. We're in my truck. It's old, the blue paint is kinda faded and the interior kind smells like dirty feet sometimes because it needs new upholstery, but it's the most private place we could go. Lunch is over but neither one of us is going to fifth period on time. Not today. She shifts in my arms to look at me.

The corners of her eyes are red, her rosy cheeks flushed more than usual, soft, silky brown hair slightly tangled. She swipes at her eyes with a hand and peers at the liquid left behind. Her long, spiky lashes blink in a sort of wondering look.

"Tha's sad," she muses.

"What is?"

"How many tears one's lashes can hold," she replies and wipes her hand on her jeans.

"That's incredibly depressing, Rue," I murmur.

"Aye, but it's th' truth, ya ken," she looks back at me.

"I know."

Boy, do I. Up until eighth grade, I was bullied a lot. And I mean my entire life.

Why? Because I used to be short, about 5'5, and I weighed 200 pounds. I wasn't very good looking. Like I've said, I'm quiet. Bullies have a habit of picking on the quiet kids. They pick on you for the stupidest things, things you can't control.

Rue doesn't say anything and the silence between is a bit strained so I begin by telling her about my life. I begin with how I was bullied almost every day of my life and move on to how Dad has never acted like a father, how he's only given us toys once in a while. How he mostly watches tv or sometimes messes with Dion and his RC tanks.