A Sanguinary Rose

First Blood

THEIR LOOKS BURNED through my skull and their offhand remarks bored into my soul. Nevertheless, the same night that I first saw the swollen moon turning red like a giant's heart was also the night I found the courage to approach my crush.

You see, where I came from, the formal etiquette was that boys approached girls. Not the other way around. And yet, out of the many things I regretted before I died, this was not one of them.

The party was overcrowded—it was a far cry from the environment where I thrived. Was I slouching too much, or was my back comically upright? Was my stride too lanky or too stiff? Even after the many hours practicing my gait before the mirror, I still felt unnatural, as though I'd jumped into someone else's skin. My hair, light bronze and wavy, what if it shuffled to the side the way it bothered me so much? The smile on my face felt more artificial the longer I forced my lips to stay curled. But my biggest fear was losing my footing to my high heels.

He saw me stumbling toward him.

Alan Grayson. He held a mystifying quality about him by the way he carried himself with such grace in a fashion almost noble, how he moved about with aristocratic flair. For context, here was a 16-17-year-old high school student from a pint-sized town in the PNW acting like he'd just attended a ball in royal regalia.

His frame was lithe, his limbs toned. His white blond hair was slicked back, keeping his spotless features in full display. Almost everyone wanted to be his friend; a few, his rival. He was one of, if not the most popular boy at Farpoint High School.

I was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. I faced down the abyss where my social status was about to go plummeting in one false move.

There was still time to turn back, to pretend something else had caught my attention, but some madness in me drove me forward and I stumbled into his personal space.

The music killed my voice before a word came out of my taut lips, which prompted this otherworldly beauty of a boy to lean down with his ear towards me. I produced another meek 'hi.'

"What's that?" Alan said loudly. He scratched the back of his head, as if not wanting to state the obvious. "Music's too loud."

Between the din of frantic guitar strings and students hooting and pushing, I would have to speak above my comfort zone. Thankfully the flashing lights concealed my reddening cheeks.

"No need for words if we get on the dance floor," I said louder, pulling the sweetest smile I could manage. I felt my face burning up. Now I would've welcomed the sweet release of death.

Perhaps there was reason to hope, but judging by his reaction, I failed miserably. Alan stiffened on the spot, and the boys flanking him stopped mid-conversation to snicker. He threw them a murderous glance. "Guys... shut up," he said, before turning back to me. "I'm sorry, Scarlett, but I hate dancing."

He knew my name even though we weren't classmates. That, at least, gave me a small boost of confidence. But my heart thundered against my ribs still.

I couldn't stop fidgeting with my hands. "Just so happens I don't enjoy it either, so maybe we could... do something else?" Off his nonplussed look I hurried to add, "Talk? I mean..." His eyes were a mesmerizing gray, like liquid silver. It was easy to become lost in his gaze.

That is if he didn't yank you out. "It seems we're not on the same page," he said, standing straight, hands tucked in pockets. One of his friends burst out laughing. "Guys, I'll kill you for this." He eyed me then, and I thought I saw something harsh and stern in him mellowing out a little. "It's me they're laughing at, not you. And it's not the reason you think it is. Look, it's hard to explain these things because..." He had had the answer on the tip of his tongue, and I knew it. I just didn't understand yet why he wouldn't tell me. "I mean, you're not my type. And I mean that on many levels. There's no tale to tell here."