Being Rue

February 14, 2010
She’s a peach.
A real people-pleaser.
An angel. A saint. A chorus of Voci bianche (“White voices” for all of you non-Italian speakers).
So in one word, she was perfect.
Her name was Rue.
Chapter 1:
Rue. What a stupid name. Who would name their child something that means “to regret”. What a moronic pair of parents.

Her name was the first imperfection of her flawlessness.

It was an act, her perfection. She was a show. So confident on the outside. So sweet. Always smiling that red-lipped smile. She played the part well, too. With her gorgeous blonde wavy locks that fell to the middle of her back and framed her elfin face, anything was possible for this girl. Her blue, water-clear eyes were pure innocence, and a playing smile was always upon that delicate face. She had the perfect, average height for a fifteen-year-old girl. Her grades were faultless as well. Hell, even her voice was seamless. The high soprano, attractive tone that anyone could pick out in a throng.

It was all fake. Every last bit.

Sure, she had that beautiful body. Amazing hair and skin, and ideal smarts. But the people who worshipped the ground she walked upon and the sweetness that colored every bit of her; it was undeserved.

She shouldn’t be treated like a god. A saint. An angel.

She wasn’t.

All she was, it was a lie.

Oh no. Not Rue Simmons. No, she’s such a sweetie. She’s simply a peach. People say these things when I contradict this girl and her ways. I’ve learned to just nod and smile politely, pretending to agree with them. It makes things easier.

Now, how could anyone hate such a wonderful girl? What kind of monster would despise Rue Simmons?

I could. I have. I do.

Just wait, and so will you.

Post a Comment

Be the first to comment on this article!

bRealTime banner ad on the left side
Site Feedback