Deflower

Chapitre Seize

Upon a warm day—it was a Wednesday, after a long, lousy day of pretending to be so very fond of, or at least, the slightest bit of interested, in mathematics and French— it was, that Lourdes had been obligated to accompany her mother to the grocery store. Lourdes had been wearing her—according to her, although other students seemed to quite like it; specially when the skirt it consisted out of was hemmed and showcased their often toned legs perfectly, and thus attracted a lot of attention from their hormone-filled male peers—hideous school uniform, and she solely hoped that she would not run into someone she was acquainted with.

"Get some cereal, for me, yes?—of course, you will; you, quite frankly, don't have a choice," Her mother said, an indescribable hint of amusement upon her lips—something Lourdes found particularly frightening—and her southern accent was heavy. It nearly made bile arise within Lourdes' throat. She hated it, a lot, that thick ring to her words—almost as much as she despised males whom felt entitled to women's bodies and touched them without given the necessary consent, and almost as much as she despised her own mother. "You know what'll happen if you don't, don't you, sweet Lo? Go ahead." She bit her lip in trepidation, and rightfully so, unless she urged for her mother to beat her under the towns curious eye—and she didn't, for that would be something that would certainly not only harm her body, but her pride, one of the very few things Lo had left of her own self she knew from years ago.

An air of annoyance swept over Lourdes'—and she could not quite conceal it; it was to be read of her features as though she had clad upon them with the grandest marker she had been able to find within her grasp—features whilst she made her way over to a few vast isles further than the two her mama found herself amidst of. She was not discontent that she was afar from her mother's enraged grasp—not only because she wanted to spare herself, but her family's reputation, too; the town was most definitely unbeknownst of her mother's hot temper—let alone that they would ever grow aware of the sociopath that was concealed by dulcet smiles and lace doilies, pink tulips and inspirational sermons. But she, she'd seen it all, and so she knew.

She'd seen the petals and the flowers bloom at the start of spring; she watched them contentedly blossom under a kiss of dawn. She had admired them per they would grow under a perfect bush and how they would decorate the manmade gardens within their neighborhood; how they would be treated with pure affection and care and watered regularly, although none of that was truly necessary, or so she supposed—she believed that they would bloom on their own, and that no being—not even him up above—could rush or change where or how they went. At one point, she found that they were invincible.

But, she'd also seen how other children detached them from their roots and ripped them apart—she'd watched how the unfortunate flowers had attempted to salvage themselves as they once were; untouched, unharmed, untainted. She'd witnessed other children trample them and take amusement in it, too; upon which they did all in their power to restore the beauty they once possessed of, but had vanished under the influence of the ones whom were much less unflawed and pure. The flowers were much like her, and so she had realized when the bruises on her arms matched to the shade of blue of the colors within her mother's garden; they were invincible but immensely vulnerable, too.

When he spotted her, she had been trying desperately—blushing, slightly, in the process—to reach one of the many boxes of cereal. It was atop of the highest shelf, and of course, it was merely impossible for Lourdes—at her poor one-hundred and sixty-two centimeters—to be able to reach it; without any helping hand, at that. She looked beautiful; shuffling her hair, thick, brown, and wavy, in an unintentionally seductive manner, and her fingers fiddling uncomfortable with the hem of her plaid skirt. He stood there and simply gazed at her, for even from her behind, only the most pleasant adjectives seemed fit to describe her, a girl of her kind—which was very rare, according to Vincent—; lovely, mesmerizing, beautiful, astonishing. And even those cut her fervently short.