Roses for June

To even the careful observer, the room was extraordinarily cluttered. In one corner was a dresser with a few scattered hair bands and a brush sitting upon it. Everywhere else, as far as the eye could see, stacks of books, papers, magazines, notebooks, boxes of pens and pencils, and just about everything that had anything to do with reading or writing covered the floor and tiny bedside table. Next to the table was a small bed, which was also covered in books, and looked as though it was very intimidated by everything around and on top of it. At the foot of the bed was a very cushy arm chair. In it sat a girl of 15. Every part of her was frozen into what seemed a perpetual stillness, except for her dark green eyes. They were nothing more than a blur as they traveled across the page of the book in her hands.

Downstairs, the doorbell rang louder than thunder. The girl lifted a hand and turned the page. Half a minute later, her hand lifted again and-

“JUNE!” The girl was vaguely aware that someone was calling her name from a very distant place. She cast her eyes around the room before turning them back to her book.“JUNE!” By now the girl had continued reading, her eyes once more a blur. “Dammit June! Get the damn door!”

The profanity teleported her from her fantasy of the deepest part of the Amazon Rainforest and back into her bedroom. She sighed angrily as she put the book down. Jack had been about to kill the leader of the peaceful tribe, and her mother had interrupted it with vulgar swearing and an unnecessarily commanding order.

June gingerly got up anyways. She didn’t want her mom to start hitting her again; she still had the bruises from last time she had screwed up. She even had bruises from the time before that. June thought about the incident as she pushed past her mother, standing like an ominous thundercloud outside her bedroom, and walked to the door. June had been at her friend’s house, lost track of time, and missed her ridiculously early curfew of 5 PM by ten minutes. When she arrived home, her drunken mother had asked her what time it was, and she had lied. It turned out that her mother had already known what time it was. That beating had particularly hurt, but June had refused to cry, just as she always refused, so as to not give her mother the satisfaction.

June returned from her flashback and answered the door. Standing there was a man with a single yellow flower.

“I am here to deliver this flower for a June Brodey. Are you June?”

Shocked, she nodded and took the flower. A card was attached. She glanced at it and saw a message.

June~
Most Roses are red
And violets blue
I send this flower of friendship
To say I care about you.
~A Friend

Slowly, never taking her eyes from the card, she closed the door.