My name is Florence but no ones ever called me that. When I was
born my parents took one look at me and must have thought I had
the face of something elderly and distinguished, or perhaps dead,
but I turned out bare, not much there to notice. Even my life so
far has been plain. More Rose than Florence from the word go.
When I see people on the TV scrambling through the mayhem of
downtown New York, gazing jealously at women plastered across
buildings; parading around half-naked in a pair of minute
underwear, flashing dazzling white smiles with a set of perfect
teeth, at no one in particular; I ask myself why bother? They
automatically think that you're a freak if your not some
exquisite masterpiece. My explanation, we're all just a blank
canvas ready to be painted.
Now, before I forget, let me tell you about me. Well, firstly let
me say, I am NOT a blonde beauty or anything relatively close,
but I wouldn't exactly call myself ugly either. What with the
long dark matted hair, lurid green eyes and skin like porcelain
chipping away as time lazily floats by. I'm different, and that
suits me just fine.
So, I'm coming back from high school, taking the usual bus route
home; first left, past the garden centre, past Jimmy's Ice Cream
Parlour and get off at the signpost. Hysteria Lane. Home sweet
home. I look up at the usual angelic glow emanating from the
striking white walls. The glowing subsides as the sun slides back
into position behind the clouds. I frantically cling to the stone
gates, gazing in awe at the composition.
"Rose?" Guilt tore the wonder from my eyes.
I turn back, eyes still sparkling. My house, if you
can even call it that, is about as recent as the Beatles were in
January last year. The only emanating glow to be seen coming from
our direction is from rusty hinges of doors and windows catching
light as he idly passes us by. How can such a dream be so real
and striking, yet a nightmare just opposite? I hurriedly shake
away the feeling of sorrow, bury it deep within the pit of my
stomach, and regretfully return to reality.
I'm terribly sorry, you must think I have the
emotional range of a teaspoon going on about things that most
probably have no interest to you whatsoever, and that even if you
were interested, would no doubt STILL bore you. I'm crazy, having
only told you about my looks; even you can't blame me for that
though. Everyone's the same these days; clones.
I'm an artist, or at least, I like to think I am. Instead of
writing things down like the average stereotypical Barbie, I draw
them. As my grandma used to say "Don't take life too seriously,
you'll never get out alive." I often think of grandma, and her
odd, anomalous sayings. May she rest in peace. Anyways, I love to
draw more than anything else in the world. No interruptions, no
rules, no one. I admit, I find it strange that celebrities can
gladly supplement food for pills or a glass of water, although I
would supplement food for drawing instinctively. So, I guess even
people like me, and people like them are on the same wavelength;
"Morning boys, rise and shine. The world awaits you."
A traditional morning alarm clock, not kids, boys. Having 3
brothers would have its advantages to the common girl, especially
considering two of them are older, but to me, they are all racing
through life at top speed, not even pausing to experience
humanity. Submerging colour, people and life into a new species
of rainbow. I don't understand them, they don't understand me;
we're equal. I mean, I do try to understand them, participate in
some sort of weird new game, watch TV with them, but to no avail.
It's a fact of life; I just can't comprehend with them, no matter
how hard I strive. So; I run.
"Rose, do your chores before breakfast."
So, I've finished my run, my one hour of total freedom, and I
feel revitalised and fresh, so I arrive back home just in time
for the last pancake. Alex, Robbie and Conor slouch in exactly
the same position that I left them in., still gulping down their
"Mum, where are my trainers?"
"Oh honey, I threw them out, they were in tatters."
"But mum, I have a race at school today."
"What's the matter now Rose?"
"Mum threw out my trainers and I have a big race today."
"Darla, she needs new trainers." They both mutter to each other
in a corner but I manage to discern snippets of their
conversation. So, I knew even before he said it, what the answer
"You'll have to borrow a pair of your brothers for now."
"But they're boys ones."
I look over at the trainers that dad had pointed at. White, with
black laces. I hurriedly got rope from the drawer and replaced
the laces. At least it looked a bit better.