black roses | rewritten version | the lost boys (1987)

i.

The dark town of Santa Carla had always been my home, and though I originally described it as dark, it was possibly the brightest city I had ever been to. Santa Carla was a place filled to the brim with tourist attractions. Bright lights illuminated everything worth-while, and colorful characters from town filled the empty spaces with warm bodies. People from every part of the world seemed to be crammed into the seaside city, making the city one of the most diverse and happy places to be.

However, the town also seemed to hold some of the darkest people. It was a place that made you lock yourself at home or away from public eye as the night hit, lest some creature snatch you up in the middle of the night. It felt, at times, that even the beaming lights of the boardwalk couldn't help you at points.

It was easy to take people like a place in Santa Carla – the place where runaways seemed to find a home. Nobody watches the goners, nobody cared, and nobody ever seemed to question the new stains on the buildings down the street or the old wood of the boardwalk. You put your head down and keep moving, praying that you wouldn't be next.

Santa Carla was never supposed to be home. It was just a revolving door, people coming and going before you could ever get their name. Still, somehow, Santa Carla was the only home I'd known. I knew the quickest routes home, the best places to hide, and even stores that held their doors open after hours for those not able to make it. Years of living here had made me almost an expert on how to get around, and I used it to my advantage.

Every night, I closed my small flower shop one hour before the boardwalk closed, walked to my motorcycle parked outside, and follow the exact route that lasted only five minutes to my house. Then, I'd lock the doors and windows and went about my business, making sure to stay home as much as possible. In Santa Carla, you could never be too sure.

My life had been pretty normal until I met them. I was freshly graduated from high school and running a flower shop passed down to me from my mother. The murder rates hadn't been increasing or decreasing, sales were good, and the only exciting thing that had happened was my newly dyed hair and store's lilacs finally blooming.

I was sorting through flowers when she came by. I was trailing my finger across text, silently trying to decide the best flowers to put in a bouquet labeled 'Santa Carla Sunset.' Purple aster, orange roses, and pink camellias were lined in a row, but I felt I was missing something, just something to break the pattern. My train of thought was interrupted, though, by a familiar voice dragging my name out teasingly. "Evangeline," she crooned.

I gasped loudly and turned, excited to see my best friend standing beside the counter. "Marigold," I squealed out, dropping the flower I was holding in favor of reaching over and pulling her into my arms, giggling. "I feel like I haven't seen you in forever!"

The blonde giggled as well, the airy sound coating my ears like honey as she pulled away, still holding both of my hands in hers. My heart jumped at the gesture.

Marigold and I had dated once upon a time, but it hadn't been for very long. We weren't right for each other. She was almost always gone away traveling, and I preferred the comfort of home. We were still best of friends, though. Well, I guess it was technically more than friends, but there were no labels to hold on to. We could love each other as pleased, but we weren't committed. I wasn't the biggest fan, but I still got her, at least while she was home, so I accepted it.

"I was only gone for a week, Eva, and look what you've done!" She pulled a lock of my hair from behind my ear, twirling it along her finger. A few days ago, I had decided to peroxide bleach the tips of my naturally red hair. The color began to fade near my mid-back, and was solid white where the ends rested against my butt.