Rose On a Grave

[Inspired by a writing prompt from Pinterest.] What happens when you get caught stealing roses for your dead mother's grave? Joshua "Jake" Harrison knows.

Here’s the thing. It’s not like I’m poor or anything. It’s just that this small town doesn’t have a florist, and I don’t want to go to the next town over to buy roses. So yeah, I nick ‘em.

There’s this house I pass on my way. Same size as all the others. White facade, dark roof, small garden surrounded by a rose bush with the prettiest roses. They’re cream coloured. Her favourite.

I never take that many, to be honest. Ten a year, if that. Their rose bush is conveniently placed on the way. And yeah, I’ve thought about paying The Mason’s, or giving them something else in return for their stolen roses. Of course I have. It’s just… always slipped my mind when I headed home again, just to reoccur when I stole their next rose.

It’s a never-ending loop, and sometimes it wakes me up at night, pale with sweat and shivering. Nightmares of faceless habitants chasing me down or having me arrested for stealing their roses. But that’s ridiculous; it’s just roses. Roses they probably worked hard to get that pretty.

I think they were in the paper once, maybe. Something about a prize for their roses. Maybe I should pay them back, or at least apologise. Yeah, that sounds good. With that thought, I get dressed for the day.

It’s Saturday. The sun is high in the sky, and Dad has a day off. He sits in the kitchen-dining area, drinking his coffee, the scent wafting through our little home which seems too large despite the years that have passed.

“Morning,” I say, rummaging through our fridge for orange juice and the chicken breast toppings I usually put on my toasted bread.

“Good morning,” he replies, peering at me over his thin reading glasses.

“What’s going on?” I nod to his newspaper before I turn to butter my bread.

“The Mason’s are giving out a small amount of money to anyone who can give a tip about their rose thief.”

My heart skips a beat, and I try not to let it show, but I’m quite sure my hands are shaking just the slightest. “Rose thief?”

“Yeah,” he sighs, taking a sip of his coffee. “Apparently someone keeps stealing their roses, and even ran with the one they wanted to enter for a competition last year.” He looks at me as I sit down and I give him a nervous smile.

“I don’t get it. You can enter roses for competitions?”

“Yes.”

“How would they win?”

He shrugs. “Probably some nonsense about how luscious they are. I don’t know. I never breed plants to compete with them.”

“You never breed plants at all,” I mutter, sipping my juice, swallowing down my nerves.

“We have plants.”

“We have dead plants, Dad.”

“They’re not all dead, Joshua.”

“Jake.”

“Pardon?” he looks confused.

“It’s Jake, Dad.”

“Not on your birth certificate.”

“No,” I drink some more. “But everyone calls me Jake.”

“That’s a nickname.”

“You’re a nickname.”

“That makes no sense, Joshua.”

I give him a playful smile while eating, and he shakes his head with a roll of his eyes and a light chuckle. It’s nice to see my dad like this again. After Mum’s death he was all sad eyes, and heavy body. He tried to take care of me, but I also had to help take care of him. Not that I blame him. Losing her was hard, to say the least. Sometimes I still wake up expecting her to sing in the shower, and then I remember she’s gone and my chest hurts for a second before I take a breath. She wouldn’t want me to keep being sad about it, and she’d definitely want Dad to move on as well. He’s not quite there yet, but I think he’s close.

“Today is Mother’s day,” he says, thoughtful sadness crossing his eyes even though he smiles.

“It is?”

He nods and looks at me. “You okay?”

I shrug. “I suppose. To be honest I’d forgotten. Wat about you, Dad. You okay?”

“Yeah,” it sounds like a maybe. Heavy and sighed out. “I should visit her with some flowers.”

“From where?”

“Brittany’s Flower Shop.”

“Seriously?” I stand to wash my glass. “She’ll probably be packed, if it’s Mother’s day. Would it really be worth the drive?”

“Of course it would,” he stands and rinses his mug. “I can’t believe you’d ask such a thing.”

“No, I just mean,” I sigh and run a hand through my hair. “We could always pick some flowers, or something.”

“Or steal some roses,” he flashes me a dangerous look that makes me feel like the smallest 17-year-old in existence.

“What?” my voice is at least three octaves higher than normal. 

“Steal- Steal roses? Pf! Come on, Dad,” I give him a pat on the shoulder. “Now you’re being ridiculous.”

“Am I?” his stare is cold now. Ice. I can practically feel it freeze my entire body to an icicle. Sub-zero Jake.

“’Course,” I shrug, looking anywhere but him, my throat tight, my neck burning. I know I’m blushing. I aways blush when I lie. Traitorous blood vessels. I clear my throat. “Anyway, I have some ehm… some homework, to do. So.”

“Mhm,” he doesn’t look at me anymore, which is much worse than his icy cold stare. “If you don’t come clean to them by next week, I might turn you in myself, Joshua.”

With that, he puts on his shoes and a thin coat, leaving with his phone and keys in hand, but he doesn’t say goodbye, and by then I know I’m screwed either way.

I let out a sigh, my body warm and heavy with guilt, my throat clogged up, and yet, I put on my shoes and coat, pocket my phone, lock the door, and pocket my keys. I kick some invisible dirt, scolding myself, my hands trembling in my pockets, and set off on the familiar path. Dad’s car is long gone by now.

It’s a quiet day, really. Not bad for May at all. Birds are chirping and flowers are in bloom. I know their roses are, too, some of them probably fully grown. Mrs. Mason is famous for her green fingers. Like, town-gossip levels of famous.

Have a dying plant? Call Mrs. Mason and watch the magic. I heard stories she went to someone with a practically dead Petunia group, and Mrs. Mason sat down for like an hour, talking to the freaking flowers. Next thing you know, boom; the Petunias are good as new.

So, yeah. I walk with guilt in my stomach and lead in my legs, wondering if I should grow my fringe long enough to hide my face behind it.

There’s their hedge. Dark green, littered with cream-coloured roses and rose-buds. In bloom and sprouted. Faded and alive. Like a fairytale scenery in real life. There are small droplets sitting on their petals, their scent just registering over the still rain-damp pavement. I can’t help but stop and admire them, like rare art. They always make me feel happy, and guilty, and sad.

It’s Mother’s day, though. I forgot and they’re the perfect apology. Mum loved The Mason’s  roses and bought a few to plant herself. She never got to start her project, and her shrubs are long dead and probably dried out.

I sigh and look both ways, avoiding the house out of shame. 

“You’re the last one. I promise.”

I put my fingers gently around the biggest rose I can find, its crown in full bloom, its petals thick and moist. The leaves of the bush shiver when I plug it, and a few droplets of rain fall to the ground, and a few land on my hand, cool in the lukewarm breeze.  I bring the innocent rose to my nose and sniff it, its fragrance similar to my mother’s perfume. My throat clogs, this time with sadness, and my eyes burn.

Six years later, and I still miss my mum. I miss the times I won’t ever have with her. She will never see me graduate, or grow up, or fall in love and possibly get my heart broken. I miss her voice. 

When she used to sing in the shower, or while she cooked. I miss her laughter. The melody that carried though the air, light as feathers and comforting, carrying a safe heat with it.

Yeah. I miss my mum.

“Hey!” a gruff voice pulls me out of it and I open my eyes to see a guy, probably around my age. Dark hair, electric eyes.

He looks really pissed, to be honest. Arms crossed over his chest, nostrils flaring, eyebrows angled, and eyes flashing with rage. His legs are placed shoulder-length apart, like he’s not scared to fight me, and he has his chest puffed out. His biceps bulge with the tension.

“Hi?” I try carefully, making myself just a bit smaller. Maybe he won’t punch me if I subdue myself.

“You’re the one stealing our roses.” It isn’t a question.

“I-” I look at the rose in my hand and realise I can’t really deny it. 

“I’m sorry.”

“Sorry,” he uncrosses his arms and makes himself even bigger, poking me hard in the chest. “Say that to my parents who had to draw out of a competition they’d been looking forward to all year, last year.”

I look down. “I didn’t mean-”

“I hope she’s worth it.”

I look up at him, his stance not as tense anymore, but still alert. “Excuse me?”

“You know,” he nods at the rose in my hand. “The girl you’re stealing the roses for. I hope she’s worth it.”

Oh. Oh. Oh no. This guy thinks… Well, maybe I should let him.

“Yeah,” I stand straighter now, almost matching his natural height. “Yeah, I’d say she is.”

“Prove it.”

“Come again now?”

“I said prove it.”

I run one hand through my hair. “Look, Pal-”

“No, you look,” he pokes me again, but doesn’t puff himself up quite as much this time. “Ever since you started stealing those God damn roses, I’ve had to listen to my parents moan about it. Year, after year, after year, after year. So now, I get to come with you and see this chick you steal roses for. I mean, she must be pretty special, if she can warrant flower theft.”

I almost groan, but manage to, somehow, mask it with a heavy sigh. I look the guy in the eyes, trying to glare just as hard as he is.

“I don’t need to take you with me.”

“Yes, you do.”

“No, I don’t,” I turn on my heal and start walking. The d********g is right behind me.

“I’ll follow you anyway.”

“Oh, you mean like a stalker? Allow me to call the police,” I fish up my phone.

“Sure,” he says nonchalantly. “While you’re at it you can turn yourself in as a flower thief.”

I glance over my shoulder only to discover the a*s hole is smirking. Legit smirking, one corner of his lips practically reaching his eye.

“I hate you,” I decide.

“Feeling’s mutual, Buddy.”

“Jake.”

“Huh?”

“My name. It’s Jake.”

“Reed.”

I can’t help but snort. “Who names their kid Reed?”

“My parents. Obviously.”

“The same parents who breed roses for competitions.”

“At least you don’t have to live with it,” he mutters, and I burst out laughing, even though I might feel sorry for Reed Mason.

We walk for a while, the path familiar. If I were to fall asleep while walking one of these days, I think I’d still reach the graveyard no problem, and her headstone. My neck starts burning in my liar’s blush when I realise I haven’t exactly told Reed Mason we’re going to visit my dead mother’s grave. I can practically foresee how awkward this is going to be. The feeling of something gross slithering up your back and blocking your airway while simultaneously making your head feel heavy. Then again, Reed Mason is the one who will feel the most awkward, and then I can probably make fun of him.

We arrive at the grand iron gates, one of the doors always open, and I enter. I can feel Reed Mason’s body grow stiff behind me.

“You- you meet your date at a graveyard?” he chuckles, nervousness coating his every syllable. I love it.

“You could say that.”

“Weirdo.”

We walk further into the maze of low bushes, and gravelled paths. Past the graves before my mother’s that I know as well as hers. Large polished stones with decorative, cursive handwriting. Small stone sculptures of doves decorate the headstone four plots way from my mum’s.

When we reach my mum’s grave, my breath catch in my throat as it always does, and I spiritually and mentally deflate, not even caring I have Reed Mason’s eyes in my neck, following my every move as I kneel in front of my mum’s grave and put the rose by her headstone.

“Happy Mother’s day,” I whisper, my voice scratchy and blocked. I clear my throat and try to press back my tears, realising I might have forgotten Mother’s day on purpose.

Reed Mason stirs behind me. “You ehm…” his feet shuffle against the gavelled path, stones gliding over stones. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you brought the roses to your mum.”

I stand up and wipe away the tears that have yet to spill. “I know,” I turn to look at him. “It’s okay. I shouldn’t have stolen your stupid roses in the first place.”

“My parents’ stupid roses,” he corrects, peeking at my mum’s headstone.

I shrug. “Still. I should be the one apologising. It’s just… the closest florists is Brittany’s Flower Shop, and she’s in the next town over, and my mum really liked your parents’ roses. She bought a shrub from them a couple of months before… you know,” I nod to her headstone.

“Yeah,” Reed Mason scratches his neck, his cheeks flaring red. “Still. I’m sorry for assuming-”

“It’s okay, Buddy,” I give him a playful smile. “Why don’t you invite me home so I can apologise to your parents?”

“Yeah,” he smiles, nervousness visible in his face, even though he’s clearly trying to hide it. “Sounds good.”

We start walking, and because I’m feeling like crap, I can’t help but put the icing on the cake that is Reed Mason’s embarrassment.

“I’m gay, by the way.”

I laugh while he sputters out new apologies, and decide at that moment that I should probably become Reed Mason’s friend. If his parents don’t kill me for stealing their roses, that is.

Author's Note

I tried to challenge myself with 1st person POV, since I feel much more comfortable in 3rd limited.

Reviews

[Scorpion Flametail]

That was a pretty good story.

[wordman]

looks like first place to me,i enjoyed the story,reminded me of the weekly reader in my school days