A Wilting Rose

There is Strength in a Dying Flower

I woke the next morning to the sound of my mother, marching up the stairs and calling into my room, 'Rosie! Wake up!'

I opened my eyes, feeling immensely tired. They were crusted with sleep and I heaved a yawn, for a moment forgetting everything. It took around two or so minutes for the events of the previous night to rush over me. A smile stole over my face, a real, genuine smile, as I realised that I hadn't succumbed to death; I hadn't and I never would. I pushed my duvet off me, suddenly feeling awake, more awake than I had felt in a long time.

Standing, I walked over to my mirror and grinned at my reflection. It was the same as it always had been, of course, but it was as though I was seeing it in a different light. My hair suddenly seemed more appealing; its natural shade of red seemingly so much more beautiful than the dyed blonde that Michelle took pride in. And there weren't many people who had green eyes in my year; the browns and blues were most common, but mine were different.

I was unique.

I took up my brush and ran it through my hair, before completing the look with a small, red clip, in the shape of a rose. Then I took one look at my, rather full, drawer of unused make up that Mum had bought me, in a fruitless attempt to get me to wear them. I contemplated them for a short while, before setting my teeth and applying lip gloss, mascara and a dab of foundation. Why would I give them a perfectly round reason to subjugate me to their torments?

Eventually deciding I looked fine, I went downstairs two steps at a time, gave an unsuspecting Mum a tight hug and sat.

She looked at me in surprise, then started to smile. 'Rose! Don't you look pretty!'

I smiled in gratitude and wolfed down my cheese omelette like it was the last meal I'd ever have. Then I rushed upstairs and double-checked I had absolutely everything, before retreating back downstairs.

Bidding goodbye to Mum, I pushed open the front door. It was icily cold, but bright; the cold sun was streaming down onto Weatherhead village, drenching it in light. The ground was concealed in a layer of ice, and slipping slightly, I made my way to school.

It wasn't long before I caught sight of Michelle Murphy, who was slightly ahead of me with her cronies. I knew Michelle lived at the other end of the village, so there could only be one reason that she was here; me. My light-heartedness faltered slightly, and I hesitated, reluctant to pass her. But I remembered my new-found happiness, and I sped up slightly to overtake her.

She snorted at the sight of me, elbowing her friends and sniggering derisively. I stuck my nose in the air and marched past, to renewed snickers.

'Hey, spof,' Michelle began. I sighed, ready for her insults, but she never completed her sentence. Instead, I heard a yelp, rather like a strangled cat, from behind me.

I turned, wondering where her remaining words had gone, and suppressed a laugh. Michelle had slipped on the ice. Her feet had skidded along the pavement, and in a desperate attempt to stay upright she had grabbed the sleeve of Casey, one of her innumerable gang. The two girls were now sprawled on the ground.

I smiled, amused, and took great pleasure in seeing Michelle's hot glare. Then I turned on my heel and walked the rest of the way to school.

***

English was dragging. It was the final lesson of school and, as was customary, seemed to take double the amount of time it actually did. The majority of the class were gazing at the clock with glazed expressions, the hands of which were seemingly stationery. Michelle hadn't quite recovered from her humiliating fall that morning, so at least I didn't have to endure her relentless taunts; she seemed to be giving me a wide berth.

However, the other bullies, the ones took every available chance to torment me, did not waste a second in passing the time with ungainly face-pulling and silent, unkind laughter at the sight of me. I sighed, at least comforted by the knowledge that they were, in short terms, stupid.

Miss Bridges chose the last ten minutes to remind all of us about the poetry competition, earning her exasperated glances from the students.

'We don't want to do stupid poetry,' someone muttered near my desk, to which another replied, 'yeah. Only nerds do poetry.'

This was met with a scornful glance in my direction, and I smiled in response.

It had given me an idea.

A/N This is probably the shortest chapter I've ever done...oopsies... Anyway, I'll update soon, please vote and comment improvements and corrections; I know I sometimes fall to the fatal hand of Auto Correct, so please point these out so they can be changed!
-Buffy (",)