by Ink Spotz
She sat on the stairwell, casting her eyes up towards the door. Locked behind it was her greatest temptation.
She wrung her hands on her lap, casting her eyes downward to look at her pretzeled fingers. Below her she could hear the shouts of joy coming from the other students.
Why couldn't she be normal like all the rest of them?
Her aunt had told her that she ought to stop living in the past. Every morning while she was combing out her hair in front of the mirror, she had to listen to her lecture.
It was like a broken record; like nails on a chalk board. It was so grating that she just wanted it to stop.
“No one's ever happy living life looking behind them,” her aunt's voice echoed in her head even now. “Even then, the road will end.”
“The end is preventable,” she thought, digging her nails into her knees before rising from the steps. There was no more time to wallow; to let voices dictate for her what to do.
She had to do this now or never.
She turned, taking the remaining steps up to the door. Her mother had done the same thing and ended up happily ever after. Why couldn't she do the same?
“Because you're not Aurora. You're Rose,” rang out her aunt's voice in her head again as she placed her hand flat against the door at the top of the stairwell.
“Every flower has it's thorns,” she said out loud to the voice in her head, pushing the door inward.
The room was dusty; dust dancing through the sunbeams filtering into the room. She crossed the creaky floorboards, looking at the black spinning wheel in the corner.
It sat there, clothed in dust and cobwebs, seeming to call to her as it did to her mother.
She was surprised she had gotten this close. She stood within feet of it, just staring at it for a moment. “Think about the consequences of what your mother did,” said her inner aunt.
“And think about the reward,” said Rose out loud to herself; tears in her eyes. Her mother had woken up to stare into the eyes of the one she loved.
Rose knew she was selfish. She knew her mother hadn't done what she did purely for love. But she wasn't her mother. She never could be.
Rose closed the distance between the spinning wheel and herself, reaching out a finger to prick it on the needle.
She slumped to the floor; eyelids growing heavy with sleep. “What's one more prick?” thought Rose as she passed into her slumber. “I was already numb.”