When people hear my name—Rose—they assume I'm some docile little flower. I don't know why, but personally? I blame sexism. I mean, I'm not short, my face doesn't have soft features, and my voice cracks on certain words, which is normal for a girl, of course. For a beta girl, perhaps.
Expectations always got on my nerves. A lifetime of people using my name as shorthand for who I was supposed to be was… exhausting.
My wandering mind snapped back to the board in front as the teacher announced that class was dismissed. I pull my—ironically flower-covered—hobo bag onto my desk, slide my laptop inside, and spot a certain blonde forcing her way through the exiting crowd.
"Rose, what are you gonna do this weekend? Want to come to Glassenburg with me?" Stella ended her sentence with a pout and looked up at me with her infamous puppy-dog eyes. This is her fourth attempt this week to get me out of the house, with the same setup. "What am I doing? Want to come? Enter literally anything next."
I stifled the urge to roll my eyes at her, trying to use her cuteness against me. Stella was my childhood best friend; by default, I deflect her "cute attack".
"Stella, don't act like you didn't remember I was going back home to visit mum."
"Right, but you do that every weekend." She didn't hold back her eye roll at my response.
"She's not getting better, and I just want to be with her until this is over—until the house stops feeling so empty." Stella's face doesn't hide the guilt forming, and I quickly add, "Trust me, I want to go shopping with you, and my nails are dying for a visit to our fave nail tech, but—"
Stella held her hand up. "But your mom is lonely, and your dad is a bum loser who can't show his face for more than a day? I know my lovely Rose, but that can't mean you aren't supposed to enjoy your youth, dammit."
I grin widely, "Yes to the first part and maybe to the second?"
I fight a giggle as Stella starts throwing—what I call—her mini temper tantrum, which consists of light stomping and grumbling under her breath.
We talk a bit more about our daily struggles, aka our pain-in-the-ass teachers and Beta classes. I mean, come on, teaching betas "how to be betas"? Talk about indoctrination and societal expectations.
We stop for a second to finish up our chat and wave each other goodbye. Time to grocery shop.
***
I huffed as I trudged down the street, thinking of any better way I could spend my time. Mum asked me to grab some groceries on the way back from classes, and like an amazing daughter, I said yes. Then she sent me an entire list, so here I am, walking with four plastic bags hanging from my hands.
As I got closer to our house, I noticed a vehicle in the driveway that most definitely didn't belong to either of my parents. I slowed my walk—thank god these groceries were killing me—and wearily approached the car. Pushing my shoulders, I circled the car. There were tinted windows, so I prayed no one was sitting inside, but that didn't stop me from snooping more.
License plate memorized, check. Tire types zigzaggy, check. Car type: black Honda, check. Once I felt good about the information I gathered, as much as a girl who knows nothing about cars could, I continued up to the front door.
Putting down the groceries, I studied the doorknob and tried twisting it because this situation was weirding me out. It was locked and didn't look like there were any marks or cracks in the paint. Feeling a little better, I pulled out my key and started working it into the lock.
Once I got the door open, I picked the bags back up and used my hip to push the door open. Everything seemed normal inside, but I couldn't shake off the suspicion that whoever was here wasn't invited.
Usually Mum would send a text that someone would be coming over. I pulled my phone out of my pocket, and the plastic bag rolled down my arm as I lifted it to my face. No messages from Mum since this morning. I don't live far from home, but I preferred to stay in the dorms, so I never felt the need to message her too much.
I finally decided to walk further into the entrance hall and kick off my shoes.
"Mom!" I yelled out, trying to peer around the wall blocking a clear view of the living room.
Suddenly, a sound comes from behind me. I spin around fast, but my attacker was obviously ready, and a sharp pain radiates from the side of my head. Fuck, I just got smacked in my own home.
My left ear rings from the blow, and my eyes blur slightly. I stumble toward the left wall and use it as support. I can make out some details of the man in front of me: black suit and tie, wavy black hair.
"Sorry Miss, I'm under strict orders." Before I can mock him, he pulls my waist into his side and brings out a needle. I try to push against him and toss myself back, but his grip is firm. Being this close to him has advantages, though. Before the needle finally finds its mark, I try to blink the blur away and memorize his face. Quick, inescapable pain blooms in my neck.
Then everything goes dark.