The Rose Luna

When I was five, they found me wandering barefoot and alone on the edge of a highway. My small hands were sticky with blood, but it wasn't mine. I didn't cry, didn't speak. The only thing I could remember was my name. The police said I was silent the entire ride to the station, staring out the window like I was looking for something. Someone. But I don't remember any of that. All I remember are flashes: the chill of the pavement under my feet, the red and blue lights flickering like fireflies, the way every adult seemed afraid to meet my gaze.

They took me to an orphanage that night, the first of many. I think it was run by a church. Although my memories of that time are now hazy and indistinct, certain details remain strikingly clear: the cold, gray stone walls of the building which felt less like a home and more like a prison, the peculiar odor of candle wax mingling with the scent of aged wood, and the hushed tones of the nuns as they offered their nightly prayers while tucking us into our beds. I stayed there until I turned nine. By then, my actual personality had surfaced, and it wasn't what they wanted. The nuns said I was too angry, too defiant, too troubled. They weren't wrong. I lashed out, broke the rules, and picked fights. Maybe it was the rage of a child who had no answers, no family, no place to belong. Or perhaps I was just broken.

When they'd had enough of me, they sent me to another orphanage farther away, where I wouldn't be their problem anymore. That's where I met Ashley. She was tough and fearless, with a sharp wit that made her seem older than she was. "My mom is a prostitute," she told me the day we met, like it was just another fact of life. I didn't even know what the word meant back then, but I nodded like I understood. Ashley was the first person I ever trusted. We stuck together for almost a year, our own little alliance in a world that didn't care about either of us. Then, like everything else, it ended.

I was sent to a foster home, a big suburban house with two biological kids and four adopted ones. They were picture-perfect, the family you'd see in a holiday commercial, but I didn't belong. I was chaos in their carefully controlled lives. One day, I set fire to the shower curtain just to see what would happen. That was enough for them. They sent me back to the orphanage without a second thought.

Months passed, and I went to another foster family. This one didn't have kids, and something about their strained silences told me they didn't really want them either. The husband barely spoke to his wife, and she drowned her boredom in wine. I was their distraction for a while, something to fill the void. They gave me my own room, dolls I never played with, and a piano in the living room, where I learned to plunk out a few sad melodies. But like everything else in my life, it didn't last. When the wife found out her husband had been cheating and had a bastard child, they divorced, and I was back at another orphanage before I turned eleven.

From there, it was a blur. Foster families, orphanages, one after another. Some families kicked me out after my inevitable stunts - stealing, lying, fighting. Others didn't even wait for an excuse. I learned early on that "forever home" was just another lie.

Around seventeen, I'd just about had it. Enough of the rules, enough of the pitying looks, enough of being someone's temporary responsibility. I got a job, saved every dollar I could, and found a room to sublet from a guy who didn't care about IDs. I finished high school during the day and worked during the night. It wasn't much, but it was mine.

I really wanted to build something real for myself, so I applied for scholarships. I knew I couldn't afford college without one. I got in, but I put it off for a couple of years to save up more. Now, I'm here. Twenty-four years old, living in a rundown studio apartment above a Chinese restaurant that blares karaoke every night. The walls are thin, the radiator barely works, and the windows let in a constant draft. I'm alone, but it's my choice.

When I got home that evening, I tossed my books onto the small, chipped table in the corner of my apartment. The space was cluttered but familiar, a haven carved out of chaos. A single bed, a rickety desk piled with papers, and a tiny kitchen that always smelled faintly of soy sauce from downstairs.

I sank into the chair by the table and pulled my headphones over my ears, the low thrum of music blocking out the world. I was supposed to study for my financial management exam, but my thoughts kept drifting.

Today was my birthday.

I stared at the open textbook before me, the words blurring into a meaningless jumble.

"This is the lamest birthday ever," I muttered under my breath. But then again, all my birthdays were lame.

Before I could overthink it, I pulled out my phone and sent Nathaniel a text.

I'll be there.

His reply came almost instantly.

Awesome. I'll pick you up at 9.

I glanced at the clock. 3 p.m. Plenty of time to study. The hours blurred together, the monotony of studying broken only by the occasional buzz of a notification. Before I knew it, it was time to get ready.

I settled on skinny jeans, a faded band T-shirt, and my usual sneakers. My reflection in the mirror looked as tired as I felt, but I didn't bother with makeup or anything fancy.

My phone buzzed again.

I'm downstairs.

I grabbed my keys, phone, and some cash, then headed down. Nathaniel was waiting in his sleek Chevrolet Corvette, a reminder of the gap between his life and mine. His relaxed smile greeted me as he opened the passenger door.

"Hop in, Mer," he said, his voice warm as always.

The drive to the club was a blur of streetlights and city sounds. When we arrived, the line outside snaked down the block. Nathaniel didn't even glance at it. He breezed past the bouncer like he owned the place, and I followed, sticking out in my T-shirt among the sea of glittering dresses and designer clothes.

Inside, the music was deafening; the bass reverberating in my chest. Sweat-slick bodies moved to the rhythm, and the air was thick with the smell of perfume and alcohol. It smelled like sex. Nathaniel led the way to the bar, ordering drinks while I leaned against the counter, scanning the crowd.

That's when I saw him.

A man, tall and dark, standing at the edge of the room. His gaze locked on mine, unflinching. Something was unsettling about how he stared, like he knew me - or wanted to. He didn't look away, not even when I tried to ignore the weight of his gaze.

"Let's dance!" Nathaniel's voice snapped me out of it, his hand pulling me toward the packed dance floor.

I tried to lose myself in the music, but I couldn't shake the feeling of being watched.

When we finally retreated to a corner table, Nathaniel excused himself to the bathroom. That's when she appeared.

"Oh my god, you're so pretty!" The woman's voice was bright and sugary, like she'd practiced it in front of a mirror.

"Uh, thanks," I said, caught off guard.

"I'm Amber. Sorry to bother you, but I saw you sitting alone and wanted to say hi."

I raised an eyebrow. "I'm actually here with someone."

"Boyfriend?" she asked, her tone too casual to be innocent.

"No. Just a friend."

Before I could say more, Nathaniel returned, his face a mix of curiosity and confusion. "Hey, Mer, who's your friend?"

"I actually don't really know," I answered.

Amber smiled awkwardly and quickly excused herself. "Sorry to interrupt. Enjoy your night."

As she walked away, I couldn't help but think she was strange, but her confidence lingered in my mind.

"That was weird," I said, watching her retreating figure.

Nathaniel nodded, but his expression was tight, his usual humor replaced by something I couldn't quite place.

"Yeah... weird," he echoed, but his voice sounded off, like there was something he wasn't telling me.

I decided not to push it.