People would think a rose would represent or symbolize love or passion. A few rare others would think it would represent heartbreak or short life, maybe death. Rika, a young rejected girl, sees the world differently; almost upside down.
I would feel insulted if a boy or friend handed me roses. Yes, roses are beautiful and they smell lovely, but it's all a fake! They eventually wither and die. To me, they symbolize heartbreak because a rose dies so easily if not taken great care, and death because the color red seems like blood and hate to me. White roses however, remind me of imagination and insanity. Imagination for thinking of just how many shades can compare with white, and insanity for the white asylum walls that torment patients instead of healing them. Yellow roses to me just seem pretty. They're an odd color, I like them because they're not normal, like me!
I'm Rika, twelve years old, five feet and almost one inch, long black hair with heavy bangs, fair complexion, intelligent for my age, squinty bright hazel eyes, always wearing my favorite leather dark brown boots that seem to be a few sizes too big for me, but I love them anyways! People always seem to be wearing the latest trend or fashion depending on their stereotypes or labels. I say labels are for soup cans and only for soup cans. I guess people call me a misfit... But, does that matter? I love being myself, being who I am, loving that I'm alive and breathing.
"Rika? You alive?" my best friend Isabella, or Lisa as she likes to be called, waved her hand in front of me, tilting her long dark brunette hair to the side. "You've been spacing out in the school bus for a while now..." she was always worried over me, but I still stared in space, and answered with a yawn. She pursed her lips and crossed her arms motherly, "You didn't get any sleep at night again did you?" she scolded and tsked at me.
I looked at her and resisted another yawn, wiping away my tears, "Huh...?"
"Rika..." she had the tone again. The tone is usually a mixture of sarcasm, worry, and anger, an odd mix which I liked. "You shouldn't be so... restless!" she snapped her fingers in front of me to wake me up some more. "Wakey wakey sleepy head! The bus is at your stop." Lisa shook my shoulders some more and even yanked at my long hair to get me awake.
I glared at her and sighed, "I'll be okay." It was always my answer everyday. 'I'll be fine,' 'I'll be safe,' or 'I'll be okay.' It wasn't true though, even Lisa knew, but she could do nothing about it. They were just... kids after all.
"Rika." I hear my mother call me with a tone full of malice and hate. I slowly walked into the kitchen where she was with my boots clicking against the tile of the kitchen. "Why is it that I receive a letter from the school, saying that you are failing almost every class?" She glared at me and looked down at my feet. "I just cleaned the god d**m floor Rika! You always do this to me! Stupid!" she yelled and slammed the papers down on the table getting up.
I was beyond scared and immediately collapsed to the floor and took off my shoes, picking them up and gave her a quick apology, "Sorry. I promise I won't do it again."
She stopped, still glaring at me and sighed, letting her shoulders slump. That was a good sign. They rose back up and stiffened. Bad sign. "Rika, what am I ever going to do with you? Those digusting shoes make you look ugly, you're a failure, and you're so... hopeless."
Now my shoulders are stiffened. Disgusting... Ugly... Failure... Hopeless. Those words created a lump in my throat and I realized my hands were shaking. I didn't know if it was sorrow, or if it was just plain anger. Either way, the words hurt. "Suh-Sorry..." I apologized again.
She seemed even frustrationed now. "You always 'sorry' but you don't mean it! You say sorry each time you get terrible grades, and I have to go to stupid conferences with your teachers. Do you know how embarrassing that is for me? Do you? Do you know what this is too?" she held up a button to a shirt.
I gulped, suddenly growing a backbone. "A button... It represents bond..." It was a sensible thing to say because buttons bring clothes together and hold it together... if only she was a button that will hold her mother and father together some more, then maybe they wouldn't have gotten the divorce long ago...
Mother only growled, "Don't get smart with me young lady. I want you to sow this back to my dress. You were the one who was supposed to do laundry last week and this button was found in the drier. Sow it back, now." she shoved it in front of me with white fingers and I slowly took it.
Immediately, I rushed off, my boots still in my arms, backpack slung over my slouched shoulders and sighed, closing the door to my room gently. She looked at the button, finally getting a good view of it... It was a plain dark blue color with four small holes in the middle. She looked at her big mirror near her closet and held the button up to her eye. She liked the color. Navy blue symbolized stress, weakness, and a cry for help to her. The smooth texture around the small button symbolized perfection, an odd combination of perfection and stress, but beautiful in everyway to her.
'Maybe if I keep it, Mommy and Daddy will get back together.' She smiled at the idea. She would just replace the missing button with one of her own instead of this special one. It was her bond, she was going to be the button.