Chapter 1

Since the age of thirteen, the girls at school had labelled Rose a psycho. It all started with a single incident. Her striking features might have placed her on the periphery of the mean girls who frequent the pinnacle of every adolescent hierarchy. Not the loudest and certainly not the meanest, but Rose was pretty enough the stand out from the rest. Her blue eyes shimmered like sapphires, partly obscured by a thick curl of red hair. With her translucent skin, the combination was at once peculiar and alluring. A face that handcuffs the gaze, refusing to let go. 

As a young girl, her beauty was clouded by a deep sorrow. Her father had passed away in an industrial accident before she was born, and her mother was so stricken by grief she could not fulfil her duties as a carer for Rose, putting her up for adoption before she was 3 months old. It wasn’t so much a feeling of inadequacy or abandonment. Her mother had given up on her long before her natural beauty had unfurled. Growing up without the unrelenting reinforcement of a loving parent left her with the assumption that her features were freakishly abnormal. 

But her destiny failed to manifest. Instead, on a seemingly innocent October day, as the brown leaves chased the yellow; Rose could tell trouble was brewing as she entered her first class of the day. The whiskers that overflowed from the pack of the school’s most spiteful girls fell silent as she crossed the threshold of the ageing classroom. The sudden lull stopped her for a heartbeat, the fiery fibres of her hair flailing with the inertia, swinging back into motion as she marched towards her desk with her eyes on the floor. 

For a moment, she thought she had escaped any downpour of abuse, but the tide was inevitable. The jealousy of the girls undoubtedly stemmed from her distinctive looks. Though her posture hid her height, when she stood up straight Rose was elegant. At school, she cowered and scuttled, hoping to avoid notice. But she could not remain overlooked by the juvenile boys, her unique looks enchanted them, stoking even more envy in the girls. 

The first volley: “Oi! Ginger! Why don’t you sit up straight? Gerard said you’d be fit if you weren’t so crooked.” 

“L-O-L. No one thinks gingers are fit. Especially Gerard. Plus, she’s too scared of boys anyway.” 

This kind of performance wasn’t new to Rose. It was a daily occurrence. Her eyes would often glaze over, and she would take herself away to a place of happiness. That place often took the form of a green paddock, punctuated by coniferous trees that seemed to reach up towards the stars. These hazy daydreams protected her from the worst bombardments. While her mother’s tolerance for stress had been shallow, Roses’ orphan upbringing had toughened her to the cruel reality of the world, even if it left her diminutive and reserved. But everyone had a breaking point – the spark to an inferno of rage. 

“Don’t worry girls, boys like girls with parents. I wonder if Roses’ parent’s were ginger too?” Tiffany snarled, trying to peer through Rose’s curls as if trying to turn her to stone. 

Her resolve shattered. She shot up. Before she realised what was happening, she was scratching, biting, pulling and tearing. The girl screamed, alerting the arriving teacher to the melee. The teacher pulled Rose away. And then, as if in slow motion, suddenly she was face to face with her latest tormentor. From deep within her, a primal reflex forced a projectile from her mouth. The gloopy liquid landed between the girls eye and nose, expanding on impact to cover both. The room fell so silent she could hear the leaf chase continue outside. 

“Arghhhhhgghheuggghh, this bitch just spat in my face!” shrieked the recipient of Roses’ gift. 

Chapter 2 

Strangely, the mean girls would keep their distance for the next five years. The uttering become more defined. The word psycho was banded around audibly. But the terror relented. Perhaps even stranger was the decision to hold a beauty in comprehensive school on the outskirts of a small British city. The event caused a furore in the student body. Rose could only dream of even taking part, let alone winning. Yet, deep inside her something stirred. A hunger; to show everyone at school that she could win. 

No longer the subject of intense ridicule, Rose had become a total recluse, choosing to find her friends in the novels of George Orwell or Aldous Huxley. In this thirst for literary adventure, Rose began to realise that being different was something to cherish. The thousands of stories she encountered celebrated the idiosyncratic, shunning the normal. Rose often wondered if the writers themselves wanted to show that uniqueness was the truest form of beauty. And as the pageant grew closer, Roses growing confidence was gathering momentum. The more she read, the more her appetite grew to do whatever it takes to win the school's silly competition 

Rose often walked between the school and her favourite book shop, choosing to take the bus home from there knowing she could enjoy her latest find without snoring. On her route to her happy place between the shelves, Rose passed a small dilapidated, glancing through the smeared windows into a space that looked as thought it had been deserted hastily. It was hard to tell what purpose the shop had fulfilled. There was very little left to provide any clues, apart from an old paint splattered radio and two tea-stained mugs. But seemingly overnight, the shop had been transformed. Now the windows were completely blacked out, reflecting the vigorous neon lights flashing across her pale skin like a kaleidoscope around her piercing blue eyes. 

As she got closer, she brushed her curls out her eyes to see the content of the sign: Madame Florence, Psychic and Clairvoyant. Her mind made the window coverings dissolve, imagining the empty space that she had passed dozens of times. The change was so abrupt, the mystery shone like a beacon, lighting up her eyes and fuelling her curiosity; like a cat presented with a cuddly toy from behind their owners back. Apart from the glowing lighthouse of a sign, the building showed no sign of life. Rose creeped warily towards the Christmas tree green door, newly painted on top of the cracked, peeling stain that had covered the portal just a day before. Her hand inched towards the knocker, a bronze gargoyle of an animal she didn’t recognise. Maybe it was something from a fantasy, Rose scrutinised; like the offspring of a sheep and a camel. The animal did not seem aggressive or induce fear; it seemed to smile at her through punched metal.

Knock. Knock. 

Rose waited. The wind roared down the street, ice cold tendrils creeping down her neck. The sinews in her legs tensed to turn away. The door clicked loudly, slowly opening to reveal a squat woman, presumably Madame Florence. Far from the picture of a gypsy that was so well rehearsed in the tales of crystal balls, she wore a pressed white blouse, smart grey trousers that seemed to float around her legs and slip on leather shoes that were only defeated in their polish by her sinister smile. She looked more like the resident doctor at a village GP surgery, greying hair to her shoulders and a face cracked from long nights and hypochondriac patients. 

"Would you like to come in dear? Its a bit blady blowy out 'ere innit?" 

The women’s squeak shocked Rose. It was clear she was no gypsy. Yet her dockland accent dispelled any preconceptions of a lofty social status. The words jumped out of her she was a black cabbie in an optician's skin. She seemed to sense Rose's hesitation, shivering on the doorstep but still for departure. 

"Com' on lav, you knocked on the dawe dint ya? I'll put the kettle on."

Behind the sinister smile, there was a glow to the woman. Not perceptible to the eye, but something that enticed Rose towards, a warmth that dragged Rose through the doorway into a new world. Despite her somewhat dull appearence, Madame Florence's abode appealed to every stereotype of the clairvoyant's lair. The sporadic lighting escaped from under antiquated shades, barely illuminated a menagerie of items so complex and muddled Rose felt her eyelids convulse for a moment. Stuffed animals from schrews and voles to parrots lay strewn across books, old medicine bottles, ancient cameras and giant gars filled with preserved creatures Rose had only seen in her school textbooks. The deep maroon walls sucked what little light there was, but on the far side of the room she could see an ornate couch with violet upholstery and delicate carvings. Madame Florence floated towards the chair which sat almost too close for comfort to the chair. She gently rested her hand on the bulge of the couch, patting it like an obedient pet, staring straight into Rose’ eyes. Rose felt her the gears of her body lurch into action. 

Through what felt like pure inertia, she found herself tiptoeing forwards; her own internal monologue questioning every step. But the mysterious pull saw her place her rear down in the exact spot of Madame Florence’s gesture. 

“So what why is it that you came here Rose?” 

She recoiled, shaken by the plummet of her heart, the folding of her stomach and what felt like a small bead of perspiration on every centimetre of her body. The quizzical thoughts that questioned where her betrothed hot beverage would appear stopped in their tracks. 

How does she know my name?!

“Sorry M’am, but have we met before? How do you know my name?” Rose asked in the quiet murmur she often used when asking the librarian for help to find a book. 

“I know lots abat ya Rose.” 

Rose was stunned. No-one had ever taken much notice of her. Her carers and guardians had done just enough to nourish her body, but for her mind, they did little to encourage her as young girl to flourish into anything more than a wallflower. 

“What do y-“ Rose started. 

“I know ya wanna sho’tha blady twats at school you’re betta than them. I know that ya always alone, and well.. you don’t know ya parents to miss em do ya… but i know ya always wonder what it’d be like just to ‘av someone who laved ya.” 

A warm tear raced down Rose’s cheek, dripping onto her shoulder. 

“And i know ya wanna win that lady beauty pageant.” 

The bitterness of the truths that had leaped out into the room replaced the shock of being confronted by them courtesy of a complete stranger. A stranger no less, who had lured her into a strange place. Rose screamed inside, desperate to leave the place but at the same time with a sense of destination. Like she was meant to be there. 

“What if I told ya I can help?” 

Rose’s chin lifted and pulled back her hair direct her icy eyes into Madame Florence’s eyes with the scepticism of a journalist quizzing a politician. 

Noting the expression, Madame Florence continued: 

“What if I told you with a thimble-full of this potion…” she purred as dipped her hand in her pocket to reveal a small vial filled with a strangely luminescent liquid. 

“…you could av tha thing you want most in the world.” Exclaimed Madame Florence, shaking the vial between her fingertips, as if to punctuate her point. 

Roses lip quivered. Was it lust, or desire, or the completely alien feeling of being offered any kind of morsel of hope in a world  

“But there’s a cost int there. Your prize will’ only last for one week, and once the stuff in this ere little bottle wears off, well I can’t make any promises abaat whether you’ll com’ bak to normal can I? You might com’ bak as your true essence.” 

The shift in vocabulary of that final set of syllable caught Rose offguard. Rose could not compute exactly what this meant. She was too feverish in her visualisation of dreams that were not so much wild, but would completely the way she appeared to the world outside her imagination. In her mind’s eye, she pictured the atypical image of beauty, espoused on the instagram feeds and advertising hoardings that pollute the minds of so many young people. Her eyes were no longer freakishly blue, melting into a far more subtle shade of green. The lurid vermillion hue hair of her hair dissolved into a soft, golden blonde; the kind that hair dye products rarely attain. Her colourless skin bronzed, taking on more colour in her mind’s projection than it would on the kind of holiday she had never experienced. The picture of her new self drew another tear from her eye, this time in pure happiness, a small drop of liquid resting on the crescent of her smile. 

The warning had flown over her head. Like an addict within arms reach of their chosen poison, she snatched the ampoule from Madame Florence, and even before she could protest the liquid was seeming down Rose's oesephagus. She had accepted the gift, and the consquences, with open arms. 

Chapter 3

Ingesting the mysterious liquid revealed by Madame Florence had been somewhat of an anti-climax. Rose returned to the orphanage, without ever reaching the library, settling into the crowding sleeping quarters and reading a dozen pages of Fahrenheit 451 before she drifted into an elusive contented sleep. As the sun rose, the meak peculiar looking girl had vanished. Stirring from sleep,briefly forgetting about the previous evening's events, Rose moved her hand to pull her hair away from her eyes, even before they had opened. 

And it was at that moment that a shiver ran up her spine. Her hair was, for the first time in her memory, not obstructing her fierce blue eyes. Like a bullet racing from the barrel of a gun, Rose's limbs propelled her out of the bed as quietly as was humanly possible. She leaped towards the shared bathroom gleefully, striding with no crookedness, which was yet to register in her brain that was still 15 minutes behind in the waking up process. 

As she reached the mirror, she gasped loudly. A scream was building within her, but she somehow managed to contain it. Her mind rushed and raced. Oh my. I'm beautiful. Her new green eyes lit up her face, dragging up the corners of her face with a smile that the muscles beneath her skin had never experienced before. He cheeks quickly began to ache, but the pain was insignificant to the joy that was burning inside her. Every quip, joke or comment she recieved from the mean girls felt like a fuel now. Sticks and stones that had hurt her at the time became the construction materials of her ego. Because now she was the embodiment of everything they wanted to be; so-called perfection. Her gleaming flaxen hair dropped straight down over her ears; no curls, kinks or knots. Her face was symetrical and sweet and her body had matured into that of a young woman overnight. 

The physical revolution gave rise to a realisation for Rose. Noone would recognise her. She was in essence a completely different person. While this gave her even more confidence, shedding the skin of her first 18 years of existence, it did present a minor problem. If she was to win the beauty pageant she would have to enter by another name. It didnt matter much to her. She just wanted the crown and to see her classmates disappointed in their own irreparable physical condition. They had no potion and no Madame Florence. A small molehill on her voyage to victory, she resolved. And that very thought summed up her new confidence. Before, she had been perpetually defeatist. Now the idea of losing seemed alien to her. 

Chapter 4 

The day of the pageant arrived. The bright lights cut through the cavernous theatre, reflecting the tiaras and sequins of the bucketloads of contestants who thronged on the stage. Each contestent stood as though their magnificent dresses were their skeletal structutre, rising like statues on heels that would be more at home with poles and cheap lingerie than any educational establishment. Glitter and makeup was in such abundance that it seemed as though the local retailers would be facing a shortage. The music twinkled and roared with strings and organ, the crowd applauded, crawling out from the community to show their adoration for their teenage queens. 

The speeches spoke of world peace, solidarity and helping others. One contestant told a story of the importance of reading in children, even though she herself had only recently left the hallways of childhood memories. They spoke of transforming the world, of preventing hunger across all four continents. One of the meanest girls the school had ever seen decided to call on Donald Trump to change his ways and embrace kindness. From slums and ghettos to droughts and floods, the girls one by one pledged to save the world from negativity and pain. It as as thought they felt people could click their fingers and cure all the world's ills. That human nature was a mere inconvenience and thousands of years of evolution were insignificant. Rose knew she needed no such artificial narratives. She had read more than all of the other contestants put together. And her newfound beauty only served to bolster this unrelenting confidence. The stereotypical announcer gave her a verbal drumroll, introducing her to the room full of her tormentors and their legions of adoring fans. 

"I want to tell you a story about a little girl who went to this school..."

The crowd hushed. She could tell they were surprised by the boldness in her voice. 

"This girl had been alone from before she was able to walk or talk. When she arrived at this school, it was clear she was different. You could all see it. Lots of you made fun of her. Lots of you ignored her. I knew this girl very well. I took the time to help her develop her confidence. I went to the library with her everyday. Building her up, day by day and book by book. I helped her find her happiness, in the words, pages and shelves of writers who would always be far kinder to her than anyone in this auditorium. The girl's name is Rose. And Rose is dead." 

Chapter 5 

The small village had never seen quite such a debacle. Mr Foster, the owner of the largest farm on the outskirts of the hamlet. His daughter had been at the local school for her entire education, and he'd never heard her come home and talk of anything even remotely dramatic. The disappearence of the young girl from the her daughters school had been on the lips of every curtain peeper within thirty miles of the school. These rural folk evidently had very little time on their hands. The truth was, as Mr Foster was always ready to admit, he was somewhat of an outcast in this provincial community. He had left the city in search of cleaner air, country walks and quiet Sundays in front of a popping fire, rather than the inferno of his inbox ready for a Monday morning meeting. He had found all of these things and more. Alongside his free-spirited wife and his energetic children, he had set up a farm that was somewhat ideosyncratic to the area. The locals had never heard of a Alpaca Park. But something so abstracted from the frentisicsm of urban life was exactly what he needed. His doctor had explained he was at serious risk of mortal health issues if he continuied to work, drink and eat his way to an early grave. So he chose life. And what a life it was. 

The patrons of the farm could adapt a Llama, they could purchase every possible permutation of llama memorabilia, from quileted pillows made from Llama fur, to masks that allowed the wearer to shoot a globule of 'saliva' through the mouth of their new second skin by blowing on a small pipe full of water. He revelled in this, admittedly insane, propietarship. He had not gone as far as donning a form of willy Wonka or Dr DoLittle attire, but he readily revealed to his wife in their most private moments that it had indeed crossed his mind. This was often met with a somewhat muted giggle, which dampened every time he made the half-joke. 

The pageant was almost a week old now. The harrowing speech made by the girl noone seemed to recognise had molded, shifted and evolved by the time it had passed every mouth in the small village. The latest story was that the girl Rose had been murdered by the Directress of the orphanage and she had replaced her at the school with one of her other charges, who the community noted was somewhat more aestehtically pleasing than the girl who had gone before her. In fact, the new girl had gone on to win the pageant, despite her somewhat unsavoury performance in the speeches round. There were rumours the missing girl had been seen leaving a derelict building in town, but not even the local bobby could confirm. It was a real countryside tale of mystery. In any case, he was none to concerned with rumours. His herd certainly wasnt going to feed itself. 

He opened the door of his hilltop, cabin-like home and started towards the rolling field closest to his abode. Before he'd made six paces, he was forced to take a double take. His herd of six had become seven. He counted at least 4 times, but he was right, there stood 7 Llamas in his field when he had only ever had 6. Flabbahghasted, he approached the paddock hastily. The discrepancy shouldnt have been so diffucult to identify. The new member of his little gang shone through its compadres with luminous red hair. As he got closer, the piercing blue eyes of his unwanted acquisition became too apparent to ignore. This was strange enough to make the hairs on his arm stand up, shivers flying across the back of his neck. Stranger still though was the look in those azure eyes, half full of joy, the other half full of sadness. An abnormally human state of affairs for a creature with four legs. He counted the legs as well just to make sure he hadnt accidentally ingested a hallucinigenic mushroom. As he got closer, within spitting distance, he noticed a gold tag around the neck of the Llama. None of his Llama's had tags, he knew them all by name and he enjoyed it when visitors would ask him their name. He approached and turned the name tag over. Rose. 

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