Living Dead (ON HIATUS)

Chapter 1 // 1 Week Until

Chapter 1 // 1 Week Until

I am standing in a field of flowers. I look behind me, and there is my house. I run in the opposite direction. I hear my mother's panicked cry, "Rose! Come back! Please Rose!" It starts turning into a sob, and by then I can't see or hear the house anymore.

Then I hear a voice coming out of nowhere, in a tone that has the tone of "I'm being fake perky." It says "So Duke, what's your opinion on Taylor Swift's new single?"

Wait, what?

"Well, Dominic, honestly I love how she 'shakes off' the haters with her fresh new sound. 'Shake it Off" by Taylor Swift, up next!"

My eyes open and I am faced with blinking red letters in my face reading "7:00," as well as the new Taylor Swift song playing on the radio.

I slam my hand down on the snooze button and pick up my phone that is right next to it. I see I got a text from my "best friend."

Her name is Kathryn, and we met in 6th grade. I guess you can say we were friends in middle school, but it started declining in 9th grade. It's not like she did anything exceptionally bad, like she exposed my deepest, darkest secrets to the whole school, or she killed my little brother or something. I just started to realize she was a basic person.

It's funny how I think, because I act just like her when I'm around people. Except that's not how I am deep down. Heh. For all I know, she could secretly be a really complex, unique person. But I doubt it.

The text was delivered a half hour ago. It reads, "OMG ROSE JOSH JUST BROKE UP WITH ME IM SCREAMING AND CRYING I M SO SAD I NEED U RN" followed by a sleugh of desperately sad emojis.

My only real friend is this girl named Aina. We met in 9th grade, and we were inseparable. We're still inseparable now, just in a different way. We stopped hanging out after freshman year, because we realized we'd be safest from the harsh criticism of us being friends and not being in the same clique. However, we weren't about to give up being friends. We still talk, but we only talk online. We skype on occasion. She's the only person that truly understands me. She's the only person I can be me around. And I love her for that.

I decide to ignore the text and deal with it at school.

I glance at the clothes I picked out for today. I try to wear what everyone else is wearing. A green polo shirt with the infamous Hollister logo, light wash skinny jeans from Abercrombie & Fitch, and my pristine white converse.

Yep. Basic white girl.

I go into my ensuite to do my daily morning regime: brush my teeth, wash my face, brush out my hair, et cetra.

I look in the mirror. I can see that I'm an attractive girl. My strawberry blonde locks cascade down to the small of my back, framing my pale, heart-shaped face and enhancing the freckles that dance across the bridge of my nose.

I'm not bad looking at all. But my face is generic. I would be easily forgotten if it weren't for my red hair and blue eyes.

And if we're getting technical, my name is hard to forget also. Rousseau. It's mispronounced by teachers, but even people with the worst memory can't forget it. But I still make people call me Rose. It's just easier. It helps me blend in more. Plus I feel like the story behind my name is too unique. My name was going to be Ella but then they saw my hair. A bright red. So they named me Rousseau, which means "Red-haired" in French.

I throw on my robe and start down the stairs, and see my mother cooking eggs on the stove, her brunette hair pulled back into a simple ponytail and her white apron tied around her waist. She is sprinkling cheese and various other spices into the pan of scrambled eggs. She's a housewife.