Rose and Red

Asher

I had always pitied her: Annemarie's girl. She was Annemarie's, but Annemarie would never truly be hers.

Stella looked at Annemarie through invisible glasses. They were the type of glasses that would turn into sunglasses when you went outside; except, these glasses simply turned the lenses pink when faced with a pretty girl.

Annemarie had a similar problem. Her glasses were almost always red. The glasses turned a shade of bubblegum when they faced me, but, for everyone else, Annemarie would see red. The tiniest mistake they made would turn them into a villain through Annemarie's glasses. She would hate someone for them simply not knowing her: for not knowing the real her.

In the end, most people have some malfunction in their glasses. That's why I wear contacts.

I like to think that I see everyone the way they are. I see Annemarie as pretty, defiant, and manipulative (for no matter how much she thinks she defies it, she still uses her namesake). I see Stella as lovesick and desperate, though otherwise dull (thus the rosey glasses).

I, however, am simply a voyeur: an observer of people and emotions. Despite the red dye I encourage people to use whenever they look at me, I do have ambitions. My dream is to watch people for my entire life.

For me, life is a social experiment. People know me as some sort of hooligan who thinks he's a badass when, really, everyone just thinks he's a jackass. However, I do my work. My teachers know I care. I want to go to college. I want a degree. I want to be a scientist, but know one knows. My grades are simply rumors of zeros, and my advancing grades every year is because everyone's too afraid to keep me here longer than I need to be. In reality, however, my report card is covered in hundreds and ninety nines.

Even Annemarie didn't know and didn't care to ask. She saw the world through rose and red, and she wasn't the only one.

Annemarie was a metaphor; Stella was a hyperbole.

Annemarie and I were going to hang out over the weekend. She had told Stella we were going to the movies.

Annemarie was a liar.

We were meeting up with some friends of mine. They were probably much worse influences on her than me, but they were good people.

I was a little buzzed when I picked up Annemarie in front of Stella's house. I had drank a few shots before leaving, but I was sober enough that I was mostly clear minded.

Annemarie slid into the passenger seat with a cheerful wave goodbye to her girlfriend, who was standing on the porch with her eyebrows furrowed.

I placed my foot against the pedal and we rolled away from the house. Annemarie leaned back into the seat and sighed.

I would have asked had I not already known what likely bothered her. Stella didn't like me, and Annemarie didn't like people who didn't like me.

"I wish she would just leave me be-"

"But then she wouldn't be your girlfriend then, would she?"

Annemarie looked at me and frowned. I could see her through my peripheral vision, which wasn't ideal for me. I couldn't see her clearly.

"I thought you would take my side," she spoke with a tone that attempted to sound like a betrayed child, "Don't you want to support me?"

"I only support you when you're right," I was gently curt, "Otherwise I attempt to guide you towards the right answer."

Annemarie scoffed and turned towards the windshield. These moments were few, but they told me everything I needed to know about Annemarie's inner intentions. She was just a child that wanted to feel like her problems mattered, which they did, but it was hard to show sympathy when she lacked it herself.

"You don't care about me."

I bet I know what she was thinking. "If Asher was (insert inanimate object here), then I was (insert something else here)." As I said before, life was a metaphor for her.

Annemarie turned towards the back and dug around the floor for something. She came back to the front with a pack of what must be full of some kind of smoking device. Last I checked, I was nearly out of tobacco cigarettes, so she likely pulled out a box filled with paper-wrapped cannabis.

Annemarie put one of the cylinders between her lips and placed her palm face up towards me.

"Lighter."

I took my left hand off of the wheel to reach into my pocket. I handed Annemarie the lighter and directed my attention back onto the road. She clicked it into flame and brought it towards her face.

For Annemarie, lighting a spliff was like lighting herself on fire. She wasn't a pleasant drunk and unreasonably unreasonable when high. After a minute, I knew I had been right, as my car smelled of newly smoked weed and Annemarie's eyes were going red.

I found it funny. When Annemarie was high was when she talked, freely that is. It's the easiest time to see that everything she sees is red. That's why I found it funny that her eyes were literally red at those times.

As she always does when she gets her hands on some kind of addictive substance, Annemarie started rambling:

"You know I don't love her, right? She's my stepping stool on the way to the stars," Annemarie always seemed to think I was insecure about our friendship, that I thought Stella was taking her away from me, "You'll always be my number one Ashy!"

I sighed, "I doubt that Annie."

Annemarie seemed furious. I had never told her what I thought of her before, so I continued to explain myself, "I think everyone is a rung on the ladder to you. I may have been here first, but your mom probably hates me even more than she hates the fact you're dating a girl."

Annemarie stared at me wide-eyed.

"Whether you admit it or not," I built up to my final conclusion, "every person you willingly associate with is you trying to differ from your mother by pissing her off, but it just proves you both alike."

Tears started streaming out of Annemarie's eyes. She sniffled, and her whimpers built up to sobs. Annemarie wailed at the top of her lungs.

"Let me out of the car!"

I sighed and kept driving, for I knew she would do something stupid if left unattended.

"I hope you die in a car crash! I hope I'm in the car, so we can both die, idiot!"

Many shouts of betrayal and death wishes ensued, and, eventually, Annemarie put them into action. She reached over and grabbed my arm. She pulled and tugged on me until I lost control of the steering wheel and left her to let us spin across the slightly icy road. At some point, we crashed, but, at the impact, I passed out.

When I woke up, they told me my friend had died.

A few days later I noticed Stella hadn't been around, probably killed herself.

Annemarie had died to avoid the pain of failure and guilt. Her girlfriend had died to avoid the pain of loss of love.

Annemarie was a metaphor, her girlfriend was a hyperbole, and I was an idiom

Because I knew they saw through shades of rose and red.