Ten Years Later
Time is running out.
Why is this taking so long? Everything has been going smoothly. Today should have been a celebration. Inside, I can hear muffled voices—conversations I'm not part of. My eyes fixate on the door, each second feeling like a lifetime.
Outside, rain pours relentlessly, and the night grows colder, shrouding the world in darkness. My bus will leave soon. I don't care if anyone notices me standing here, waiting. All that matters is that door.
One of my eyes, reflected faintly in the glass, looks at me with accusation. It's become a habit—to see blame in my own reflection. Rose might be popular elsewhere, but not here. Here, I am the girl who ruins lives.
I don't care.
I'm not afraid.
The door creaks open, and a girl steps out, clutching a clipboard. My breath catches. Please, let my name be there. She begins reading aloud, her voice sharp against the dull roar of the rain.
"Alright, everyone, I'll call out names. If I call yours, come stand with me."
My heart pounds like a drum. This is it. My chance. My escape.
She starts listing names. One by one, they step forward. But not me. My name isn't called.
No.
"Excuse me!" I shout, my voice trembling with desperation. She stops, turning to glare at me.
"Yes?"
"My interview went really well. I was told I was the top candidate. Why wasn't I selected?" I ask, my voice faltering. Hope teeters on the edge of despair.
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She smirks, her words cutting deep. "Rose, you know why. You should be grateful we even let you in for an interview. Please leave. We don't want any trouble."
Trouble. The word echoes in my mind. I've been called worse. A witch. A curse. A pariah. Every insult feels the same now—heavy and inescapable.
The others stand quietly, some avoiding my gaze. I grab my belongings and step out into the storm without another word.
The rain feels like needles against my skin, soaking through my thin jacket. My patched-up boots squelch with every step as I trudge down the road. The last bus is gone. Fifteen kilometers to walk. I've done it before.
But hunger gnaws at my stomach. Three days since my last meal. My steps falter, my breath ragged. Memories flood back, unbidden. Mom leaving for another man. Dad disappearing into death—or something worse. That night. That cursed night that changed everything.
They called me a witch. They still do.
The shack I call home comes into view. The graffiti on the wall greets me: Slut. Painted in thick black strokes. The word stares back at me, defiant and permanent.
Inside, the air reeks of mildew and despair. The cracked walls barely hold up against the elements. My bed—a pile of old, damp blankets—offers no comfort. A table with mismatched cups and a broken chair complete my palace.
As I close the door behind me, a sharp knock startles me. My breath catches.
"Who's there?" I call out, my voice shaky.
"It's me, child," comes a familiar voice.
Father Anthony.
Relief washes over me as I open the door. He steps inside, followed by Mother Kerry. They're the only people who've ever shown me kindness.
"How was the interview?" Father Anthony asks gently.
I lower my gaze, unable to answer. He sighs deeply, placing a hand on my shoulder. "Don't worry, child. One day, the truth will come out. Until then, stay strong."
Mother Kerry stays silent, her usual warm smile replaced by something colder, almost resigned. Something is wrong.
"When was the last time you ate?" Father Anthony asks.
"Tuesday," I admit hesitantly.
"Tuesday?" His voice rises in disbelief. Mother Kerry looks away, her hands clenching her shawl.
"I'll bring you some food," he says, rising to leave. As he steps out, I hear their whispered conversation.
"She's a danger to us, Father. People threatened us today because of her. We can't keep doing this."
"We can't abandon her. She has no one else."
"She's not safe. What if the rumors are true? What if she really is cursed?"
My heart sinks. Even they doubt me.
Even they think I'm the problem.
