translated ♛ || a. griezmann

•trois•

It's been almost a week since my encounter with Raphael and Antoine, and I found myself holding up pretty well.

The classes that I had been enrolled in were thankfully offered in English, and even though it wasn't my first language I could still manage. We had a mandatory course for Spanish language, and the courses had been specifically designed for international transfer students. It wasn't long before I had found out that international students were required to have a mentor in Spanish, who could help you with learning Spanish, and the overall flow of Spain.

At first, I was completely shocked and stunned by the add-on. There was absolutely no way I was going to allow that to happen, and I considered just dropping the class in general.

When I confronted my professor about it, he shook his head firmly and told me that it was impossible.

"Why do we even need a translator, though? Isn't this class enough?!" I asked in English.

"Rosalie," he responded, raising his voice, "you must. Everyone in this class will have one, and there are absolutely no excuses for you."

I just sighed and left the room miserably, which leaves me to what I'm currently doing, and that's filling out the form. It requires you to put your first language, and at first I'm hesitant to put French.

There won't be any French people in that program, right?

I realize that I can't really lie about this, so I just put French down. After filling out all the necessary information, the coordinator tells me that I'd receive a text from my language translator/helper whenever he or she was going to contact me for our first meet up.

This already sounds like a horrible idea.

After returning to my dorm room in a rather awful mood, I throw my phone down on the bed and collapse next to it.

"Why is this happening to me?" I say to nobody in particular.

I still have no idea who's idea it was to just suddenly transfer me to Madrid on the last year of college when I was doing perfectly fine in France, with everything set for my future. My mother constantly tried to get in contact with me over email, but most of the time I knew all she was sending was just directions or annoying orders about my classes and scheduling.

She must've been the one who sent me here, not even caring what kind of emotional toll it would take on my body. My life before college was somewhat miserable. Being born into a family that had higher expectations out of my studies meant lots of pressure building up on me since I was a child.

My relationship with my mother was unpleasant, since I barely even got to see her at all because of her work. When I did get the chance to see her, she would either call me a disappointment to the family, or scold me because I did something wrong.

That was the build up that led to my resentment towards her.

After a while, she stopped coming home.

I'd often ask my father where she was, but he would just shake his head.

I hate my mother.

I hate her so much.

My nerves are set on fire whenever I talk about her.

Throughout my childhood, hearing other children call out, "Maman!" and seeing them rush into their mothers' arms after school crushed me.

"Rose? Where's your maman?" I remembered a girl asking.

I could only respond with "I don't know."