“ These roses! They’ re dull and bloody. They’ re horrendous, disgusting, revolting!” I yelled with all my emotion. The blue eyes of my mother’ s had a puzzled look within
“ But Daphne, they are the same kind of roses like the ones you admire from your window box” my mother explained, trying to sooth me with her calm, affectionate voice. The same voice she used when she tried calming the masses when the touchy subject of war got around.
“ No mother, these roses are horrid. Their bloody red color frightens me. I want the ones outside. Those are a beautiful red velvet, their smell brings heaven to my nose” I explained to my cruel mother.
“ Sweetheart, they’ re the roses like the ones in the window box, they’ re exactly the same” my mother replied to my pointless tantrum. I was too old to be having a tantrum, I was already 15, but those roses were enough to cry for.
“ No, not at all. The ones I see through my glass window, those are sparkling, those are beautiful. These, these roses have lost their magic when they entered this house. Just like everything that has entered this house lost their magic. Once you throw them out, when in your eyes, they lost their beauty, and they’ re out in the open, then their magic and true beauty will return again. Even if they’ re dead and no longer red, they’ ll still be beautiful in my eyes” I said emotionally, tears filled up my eyes. My mother’ s gaze switched over from me to back to her food. She didn’ t reply back to my monologue about the dead roses, instead she ignored it. Just like she ignores the complaints from her people about the potential war. The proper wording would be our people, but those people are the reason I cannot go to the park or go anywhere without men in bulletproof vests. Death threats arrived every day. We were hated. They wished death upon my family. I do not blame them. We were putting potential death upon them, why wouldn’ t they wish the same to us? It’ s like how I hate those who stole my childhood. They took something valuable away from me, why shouldn’ t I wish something horrible upon them? I do not blame the public; I only hate them because they’ re also a border between me and the other side of my glass window. They do deserve war, they honestly do.
My mother stood up and left the table. She didn’ t acknowledge my presence; she simply left me alone with the dead roses and the thoughts of revenge and karma fresh in my mind. After I finished eating, I went back up to my room and stared at the ceiling instead of out my glass window. The ceiling, the walls for that matter, reminded me that I was caged in, that nothing I do would change my condition. That even if I wished every night to be anywhere but here, I always woke up in the same small bed, the same, pale pink walls, in the same prison. Nothing changed and I doubt it ever will. When the war begins, it’ ll be even worse. Our home would be surrounded by guards; my glass window would be replaced by a dark, bulletproof window,