A Blossoming Rose

• Samantha Pirie, Grade 7
• Short Story
• 2010

I peered down at the warm, soft bundle that lay in my arms. Her eyes were closed delicately, tiny blonde eyelashes just brushing each other, hiding the two beautiful blue pools of irises that lay beneath. Her minute pink mouth was opened ever so slightly, letting a warm tiny breath out with each fluttering of her chest. Two damp, powder-white fists were clenched on either side, resting gently on her steadily breathing chest.
I squeezed one of my slightly trembling hands from underneath her, skilfully balancing my tiny baby with one arm against my chest. I felt her precious head nuzzle into me with my movements. I used one of my long, fumbling fingers to stroke the sprinklings of blonde hair that were perched upon her head. Slowly, my finger moved down onto her face, tracing her perfect features and smooth powdery skin. Across her forehead I went, then down around her chubby cheeks, onto her plump chin and then up onto her nose. My finger rested on the tip, remembering the past nine months.
It all started with my whirlwind teenage romance with Darren, the new kid. He was mysterious, charming and creative. He had toured the world with his jet-setting parents, told me stories of exotic places I had only ever dreamt of…showered me with roses. He promised a beautiful life for me one day, full of contempt and comfort. He was the sweetest guy I had ever met, so sweet that you could accurately guess what my answer was to the next tenderly asked question.
“I really love you, babe, I’ve never met a girl like you, you’re beautiful, I want you forever…Please, let’s make it official.”
So stupidly, just like a paperback novel, I ended up in his bed…and all proof has been splattered across the internet and many social-networking websites.
I was furious, humiliated and so heart-broken. How could such a handsome dream-man turn out to be this twisted, arrogant sneak?
And that’s not all; I am constantly reminded of that fateful summer night every time I look down into my arms.
I see, of course, the stretch marks, sagging stomach; just a few of the many flaws that I had worked and starved myself so hard to prevent. But most importantly, I see our baby girl. My baby girl. The one that looks so much like my ex-love.
My baby’s cowardly father and his ashamed parents decided that now would be a good time to flee picturesque Tasmania, and move on to bustling London, where they could just continue their Nomadic life, free from the ties of a newborn child.
“None of that matters now,” I whisper to my baby girl, “Your Grandma and Granddaddy may not be sure of you, but I am, little Miss Rosie cheeks…”
A tear trickled down my face.
Then I paused…I had found the perfect name.
“Rosie cheeks,” I smiled, “Rose…After my favourite flower, and the very same one that courted me into your existence…”