The Stranger in My House

This is the beginning. The start. The very genesis of my love story. I don’t know if I can even call it a love story anymore. But let’s just label it that.

My name is Rose. I live in New York with my mother. My dad died when I was thirteen years old and yeah, that sucks. Not the living with my mom, but the dad dying part.

I hated him for so long. Not because he hurt or treated me wrongly.

Matter of fact, he loved me more than I could ever love myself. I don’t even know how to show love like that man showed.

And no, it was not an accident. Not cancer or diabetes. It was not homicide or poison. He just came home from work that night, flopped on the bed, and never woke up again.

Yeah, that’s messed up.

The doctors said later that it was extreme fatigue. That man worked three jobs to support us. And because of him, we now have a great life.

When Mama was pregnant. He was always at one of his jobs. We only saw a glimpse of him sometimes at night or when he forgot something at home, like his phone.

Because he was almost never around, he always sent roses. A bouquet of roses would always be on the bed next to my mom when she woke up. Roses were all over the place.

Mom told him over and over that it was corny but he always laughed it out.

His nickname for my mom was even Rose. I don’t understand that man’s obsession with roses. I personally don’t even like them at all.

When I was born, of course; my mom named me Rose. Real classic.

When he died. Yeah, hell broke loose. You could say that. But everything stayed the same. Dad saved almost half a million. We were set.

We remained in our high rise and I went to all the best schools. When I say schools, I mean ballet, music, dance, art. Yeah, that much. I loved them all. Or at least the activity. It distracted me from the sharp pain that would hit my chest when I thought of my dad.

I now go to NYU. No student loan or anything. Dad had a special account labeled “Rose’s College”. He is...I mean he was a really hardworking, brilliant, and loving man. Died at 36 and that’s the only thing I have against him. He left me too soon. Didn’t see me graduate or anything.

But...it is what it is. That’s that. We move.

Right this moment, I’m getting ready to go to class. I have a ‘Liberal Arts’ class in 30 minutes. I don’t live too far from the campus so I don’t stay at the dorms.

You might probably be wondering what I look like. So story time.

One time, when I was like 18 or so years old; I called my mom a bitch. I can’t remember why I said that to her but I do remember I was really mad. Like steaming mad. She had never hit me before and I expected that she would. But no, she looked me in the eye and told me I was a ‘Basic Bitch’.

My mouth was on the floor. Well, not literally but you know what I mean. I gaped. It hurt me. Others would scoff it off but it destroyed my self-esteem.

So yeah, my feelings were beyond hurt and I didn’t speak to her for 11 weeks. We lived in the same house(high rise) but never talked to each other. It was sad. It was depressing. It was crappy.

I apologized and she did the same. We have not had any fights since then. We just get each other now.

Okay, back to how I look.

Because my mom said that stupid comment. I subconsciously carry it around. Even when other girls stop me on the streets to tell me I’m pretty, I always remember her voice. Her cold tone says, ‘You’re a basic bitch’.

So yeah.

I have curly, undisciplined hair. They don’t listen to what I say. Somedays they look fantastic. On other days, they look...not awesome.

Today is one of the good days. They look great! It’s maybe a sign that today is going to be a good day.

I am dark-skinned. I’m also 5’8 and I love love the color blue. Especially baby blue and sky blue. My best friend who happens to be a guy, says that I look like a model. But I don’t really believe him you know. He might be biased.

I have brown eyes that look caramel sometimes. I wear light makeup at times and no makeup a lot of times. Makeup when my face breaks out and no makeup when it decides to smile at me.

I am 25 years of age. I got some decent booty size too I think. I hope. I pray. Those squats better be doing something!

I’m ready for class already and I am heading down the elevator. I’m wearing blue denim jeans and a blue oversized sweater. Not too big but you get the point. I look kind of decent.

And oh. I have a stalker.

I noticed the guy about a week ago. He ain’t too creepy but the fact that someone stalks me and is decent-looking brings a bit of thrill and action into my boring everyday life.

This should be fun. The whole being stalked thing.

I wonder what his name is? Does he like the same cartoons that I do?

Will he follow me everywhere I go, like in the movies?

Probably not, no one has that kind of time. Those are just movies or books, right?

Am I scared? Absolutely not!

I have my very own stalker! If anything, I am excited to the point of bursting!

You might think I’m being the typical girl who gets killed in a horror movie or book. But my life isn’t a horror movie or book, it’s a love story. At least I hope it is.

I don’t think I have the willpower to want to survive a horror book or movie.

In my opinion, this is the start of a new dawn. A chapter of my life that holds mysteries and I’m going to be the bulldog that I am and unravel every single one!