The Budding Roses

A question of morality

Thursday 26th August

Lying here, in the sanctuary of my bed, the clock tells me that it's 9am. Mother and Daddy, having long ago departed for work, have left the house abandoned, except for the humming of the washing machine. Even on full cycle it's such a lonely spin.

I turn on to my stomach, now staring at the wood stained headboard, unable to forget the dream I've just had. It haunts me, making me question reality. If it's true, then it means that we're friends again, but it can't be, as I've remembered what I've got planned for today; nothing.

The embargo continues, which is morally the right thing to do, since they are the ones to goad this whole sorry mess. Okay, it's not like I've got much of a choice, and so in the absence of a better excuse, I will use virtue and morals to explain why I'm lying here, alone, on this sunny day. It's got nothing to do with the fact that I haven't got any friends, because there are lots of people who fall in to this category, it's just that my transient amnesia is preventing me from re-calling their names and contact details right now. And so with another day of nothingness ahead of me, I can't help but think that an immoral life would probably be a lot more fun.

I pretended to be asleep, but sensed from the light footsteps that he was in the room. Eager to excite I angled my body, aware that any remaining light would fall upon it perfectly, erasing away the blemishes of real life, and highlighting the smooth contours of my breasts and stomach.

The lightness of his breath stroked kindly against my face; my trap had worked. His lips pressed against mine and I gave a secret half smile. I opened my eyes. It had gotten dark out, and he was like a ghost, dancing in front of me. I savoured the sweetness of his gentle lips, now contrasting with the tickling sensation of his most wonderful tongue, which was moving firmly against my own in slow circular movements. I raised my hand to his hair,

'Oh Harry,' I grasped, hard.

I was kissing Harry Styles. No, I'll correct that, Harry Styles was kissing me; he'd come to find me.

'What are you doing?' A fraught voice interrupted our union.

'Stop it, get off him! He's mine!'

'No he's not, he's mine.' Natasha pulled at my hair.

This is hopeless. What a gargantuan pile of mucktrupityness this has become, a simmering mound of puke that only I am able to resolve. Oh why can't it ever be easy, but alas I'm going to have to phone Natasha, if only to diffuse this wretched dynamic. There really is no other option, and so if she wants Harry Styles so much then she can have him.

'Well I'm busy today, so I can't help you I'm afraid, but tomorrow everyone is going to the Festival. I've got a spare ticket if you want it?'

'Oh Natasha, that would be wonderful. So what have you been up to?'

Natasha is going out with Matt. Let me make that clear; it's official, and is definitely not just a passing fling - it's serious. So much for her loyalty to Harry and the fart bomb she has inflicted up on my life in his honour. Here I was thinking that he was the love of her life, and that Matt had been a mere fleeting entertainment, but boy was I wrong, and she's making sure that everyone knows that when she enters in to a relationship, it's fully loaded with the expectation that marriage and babies will be the outcome.

'There's no point wasting my time on someone who isn't "The One". People who settle for less are just weak. When I'm with someone I want to know that they cherish me, that they want to shower me with gifts, but most of all that they want to have the biggest, most glamorous wedding ever. They need to treat me like a princess, which is exactly what Matt does. He's so sweet and considerate. Yesterday he bought me a cupcake with a ring on top, and on Monday he bought me a bunch of lilies. I wonder what he's going to buy me today?'