They said her mother was beautiful. Mona had seen pictures, in her father's bedroom, at her granny's house, in her uncle Charlie's wallet. A woman with a tiara nestled in her long dark curls, and a long, white, fairy tail-esque wedding gown. A woman with round sunglasses and a floppy sunhat and a swimsuit. A woman with blood red lips and an elegant updo and a sleek black dress.
They said her mother left after having Mona. She wasn't ready to be a mother, her aunt Lydia explained, she thought she was too young. Mona had been told stories of how her mother packed her things and drove to New York and was hit by a passing cab. The driver never stopped. Her mother died alone in a hospital bed, dressed in white.
They said her mother's funeral was on a rainy day. The clouds were crying, her granny said, they cried with us. Baby Mona was dressed in black and carried by her father. Her mother's sister stood at the front of the room and sang of love and the bond it carried. Her mother's brother cried during his speech. Mona's mother lay in her coffin, pillowed by purple velvet and draped in black lace.
Mona was maybe, finally, happy. Long gone were the days of Alison and her constant torment. Long gone were the days of pigtails and glasses. They were replaced with her best friend, Hanna Marin and designer dresses and sky high heels. After Ali dissapeared, Mona took her chance. She saw the horrible things Alison said to Hanna about her weight. The four remaining girls, Aria, Emily, Spencer, and Hanna tried to stay together, but it was never meant to be. The friendship collapsed, and Mona spoke to Hanna. The girl was sweet and friendly and maybe a bit on the ditzy side, but a nice person nonetheless. When Aria and Emily and Spencer swooped in and began to be friendly to Hanna, Mona knew something had to stop them.
So she paired her black hoodie and leather gloves with her Chanel perfume and Prada handbag. She figured it would cause Hanna to come to her for comfort and tell those other girls to leave Hanna alone, but she was wrong. Her scheme only brought the four closer. Her weekends turned from shopping and parties to sitting alone in her empty house, watching reruns of sitcoms.
If Mona regretted one thing, it was hurting her only friend. Hanna didn't deserve any of this. She didn't deserve having her eating disorder poked fun at, or getting hit by a car. She didn't deserve living in constant fear from A. If anything, Mona didn't deserve Hanna.
All that Mona though about in Radley was how she was going to live with herself. She saw the look of disgust on Hanna's face. That look hurt Mona more than anything. Therapists came in, begging Mona to speak, but she wouldn't. She was drowning in her guilt and pain. Hanna came to visit. A lot. But Mona never spoke a word. It hurt her to be silent, but she didn't speak in fear of crying. She couldn't let Hanna see her cry.
Once she released, she was treated the same as she was as Loser Mona. People left cow brains in her locker and tripped her as she walked down the halls. Hanna didn't try to reach out to her. Mona understood. Hanna was done with the psychopath that was Mona Vanderwaal.
They said that she was beautiful. Even as she lay on the floor of her bedroom, kitchen knife buried in her chest, Mona was elegant. Her dark curls lay gracefully across the floor, and her dress was stained with blood. Her lips were painted pink and were poised as if she was going to speak. Her tan skin had paled. Her hands were folded over her stomach, veins bright and black painted nails contrasted the drastically lightened color of her skin. She looked like a fallen angel, with a mess of curls and a gray gown.
They said the day of the funeral was clouded with rain. A parade of black clothed people flowed into the church. The room was silent as Mona's father spoke. As he spoke, all but one pair of eyes in the room stayed dry. No one loved this freak. Hanna sat in the front row, dressed in a conservative black dress. Silent tears pooled in her crystal blue eyes and spilled down her cheeks. Her mother gripped her hand tightly, and Hanna cried for her old friend. She realized through her tears this would be the last time she saw Mona: pillowed by red velvet, dressed in elegant black silk, lips painted blood red.
They said a single yellow rose was lain at Mona's grave every year. Several people saw her, a blonde dressed in a conservative black dress. On the anniversary of Mona's suicide, Hanna Marin would go to the grave of her friend, holding the yellow rose. She would kneel in front of the headstone and talk. She would talk about things girls spoke of a slumber parties: boys, makeup, clothes. Every year, the clouds would roll in and pour onto the blonde. But she never minded, she never left.
They said that Mona was lucky. Even after all she did, after all she put others through, she had a friend, who would sit with her from sun up to sun down on the anniversary of her death. Mona may have been insane, they said, but she was never alone.
In case you didn't know, yellow roses symbolize friendship.