flaws, c

In order to clear your mind and fill your chest with overflowing happiness, you shop! Drown your sorrows under the abundance of shopping bags and window shopping! These thoughts frequented Rosalie’s vain mind.

And he did just that; strutting down the aisle with a shopping bag in both hands, he grinned, revealing a row of pearly whites. He was only getting started—shopping was an all-day affair.

The bangles on his thin wrist clinked and twinkled as he shifted the shopping bag on his left to his right, hanging it over his folded arms to push open the glass door to a jewelry store. Just as a pink high heel stepped into the cool interior of the shop, Rosalie came to an abrupt stop in the middle of the door, his head turned to the sound of commotion.

A couple of brutes were laughing and pushing around a smaller boy—a timid, petit boy that reminded Rosalie of a mouse. And he was taking it.

“Are you going in?” asked a lady behind him, a brief flicker of exasperation flickering across her face as she smoothed her dress. Rosalie stepped out of the way, muttering a quiet apology as the woman strode into the shop.

Again, her head turned. He was still being thrown about, like a pinball in one of those pinball machines. Rosalie’s imminent anger began to rise as he stomped over to the gang of boys—they looked like they couldn’t be any older than sixteen.

“Excuse me,” he said, slamming a hand on a nearby table. A few boys turned to look at him, but they obviously paid little attention to him. Rosalie cleared his voice. “I said, excuse me.”

The biggest boy turned to him let out a derisive snorted, muttering something to his little gaggle of friends that caused everybody to erupt into laughter. Rosalie gritted his teeth.

All of a sudden, a shopping bag soared through the air, smacking the biggest boy square between the eyes. He tumbled backwards, landing on his rump as the contents clattered on the floor. Heads in the food court turned to the commotion.

“I suggest you leave the boy alone, or so help me, I will scream for the security. And I hope you know what’ll happen after that.” He glared daggers at the gang, hands on his hips. All around them, people murmured and nodded in agreement with Rosalie, whose chest swelled with a certain pride after having done a good thing.

The boys flushed, and after shoving him a few more times, made a quick retreat. One didn’t forget to push Rosalie aside with his shoulder. He whipped around, but decided that he would be just like them if he went through with what he had in mind. Instead, he approached the boy.

One would probably expect words of soft encouragement, or maybe mild pity. However, the fire in Rosalie’s eyes should’ve told the boy that he wouldn’t be getting any of that. “Get up. Help me with my things.” As he said this, he dropped to his knees, gathering his perfume bottles and shoe boxes.

JAMIE MARTINELLI

He was a strange boy, with purple-blue hair falling down the sides of his face in messy curls. He had a way about him that reminded Rosalie of an abused child. The more the thought manifested inside his mind, the more the idea seemed plausible.

He, however, didn’t care for that at that moment.

Rosalie watched the boy with arched eyebrows, and lips pressed into an unhappy frown. The anger that had simmered and settled began to boil once more, this time for a reason that Rosalie thought inane but, at the same time, reasonable.

The boy looked up at her with an elusive gaze, his eyes flickering away the moment their eyes made contact.

Rosalie ground his teeth together. The boy had no spine. Tilting his head, he let the shopping bag—half filled with the items Rosalie had picked up—fall slack at his side, swinging without a purpose. Rosalie’s sweet smile was fake and frigid.

“Don’t you have something to say to me?” he asked with his eyes wide with deceptive curiosity. His determination was solidified with the urge to whip the little baby back into shape.

JAMIE MARTINELLI

“Sorry?” Rosalie shook his head, the curls at the ends of his long hair swaying. The smile had been wiped clean off his face. Now, there was only an amalgamation of confusion, anger, and pity.

His fingers uncurled, and the sound of the shopping bag clattering on the polished tiles rang clear. A few people turned to look at the two, but, finding nothing of interest, continued with their day.

Rosalie’s icy glare seemed to pierce through the little boy, even though he was just shy of his erect height. However, Rosalie still managed to loom over the boy, his figure demanding all aspects of attention, the epitome of authority.

“Sorry?” He repeated his question, the disbelief coalescing with the shrill sound of his voice. “Sorry doesn’t cut it, sweetheart. Because, you know, maybe I was expecting you to thank me instead.” Rosalie leaned over, his face inches from his.

From what his face looked like, he didn’t like what he saw. “Well, if you’re sorry, you’ll come with me. Quickly now.” With that, he picked up his bag and began to walk, leaving the boy behind with half of his belongings. He didn’t know if he would follow him, but if he didn’t the boy had better expect to be hunted down.

JAMIE MARTINELLI

The young boy cheeped after Rosalie, scrambling after him with his things in tow. That was good. If he’d decided to remain paralyzed in an addled heap, Rosalie was prepared to march back over and give him a reason to do so.

Animosity pumped through Rosalie’s veins, leaving him in a state similar to being half-drunken rage as he drowned in his own flaring emotions. Rosalie understood being a complete wreck. He’d been there. But seeing his past self in the boy channeled an ancient anger that was more directed at him rather than the boy, who only churned varying senses of pity.

Rosalie’s white-knuckled grip was the only thing keeping his shopping bag from flying from his hands and precipitating over the railing. He struggled to gather his calm, reminding himself that he’d once been where this boy was.

Deep breaths, Rosalie.

“What’s your name?” was the question that Rosalie managed to cough out without allowing anger to taint his steadying tone. “And why were those boys harassing you?”

What he really wanted to ask was why he was letting it happen, but he pressed his lips together into a firm line.

JAMIE MARTINELLI