The Seasons Of A Rogue
Spring.
As a child, spring was my favourite season. This was when I was Marie, before Rogue. I loved the feeling of life blooming all around me, the flowers bursting open, releasing their fragrance.
I mourn for that naïve child I was, for who she could've been.
If only she wasn't me.
Summer.
When I was fourteen, I discovered boys. Summer was the perfect season for romance. We've all heard of summer romances, right? Yes, my favourite season was summer. Sunning yourself in the park, wearing your cutest bikini, being fawned over by boys- bliss!
I mourn for that optimistic adolescent girl, on the verge of discovering the world.
If only she wasn't me.
Autumn.
Now autumn is my favourite season. I can wear my long sleeves and long gloves and long scarves, without feeling faint from overheating or people staring at me. Autumn suits me. Everything is dying, like my soul dies just a little more every day, another day without touch.
I yearn for touch, however fleeting, for human contact.
If only I wasn't me.
Winter.
In winter everything is dead. I worry that winter will be my favourite season, that my soul will die completely.
I prey that my 'gift', my curse, will one day be under my control, that someone will save me from myself.
If only I wasn't me.
