Flower in the thorns

Senior year of high school is so tiring. Studying was one of many reasons my ability to get high scores on the SAT was easy. I'm tired because school is becoming less and less of a task, and my friends and I go out every day and play until we're exhausted. I am going to play games, party, or have a bunch of people go out to a field and find a place to barbecue together or nestle into my house to watch adult movies together. My mom gave birth to me when she was 18 herself, and I'm 18 now. She's 36 now but still looks very young because she takes good care of herself. She has a flirtatious appearance and a weak personality, has never earned a penny on her own, and can't live without a man. But we have always lived a generous life because of the men who pursued her one after another, squeezing their heads to try to offer their attention. There is no way; she is indeed charming, gentle, and considerate; the first time I brought my classmates to my home, the gang of hairy young men saw her almost staring out of the eyeballs. Mom is just busy going out on dates every day. I know she's not a womanizer; she's insecure and feels lost without a man. She's also been trying hard to find someone to marry since my father died at the age of 6 due to an illness, but sadly, she hasn't found anyone so far. "Flora!" mom gently patted my face, "Flora, get up!" I opened my eyes and glanced at the four-forty alarm clock beside me. It was my mom's wedding day; she got up early to put on her makeup and do her hair, and I followed suit. I climbed up and went to shower. My blood pressure was low, and the only way I could wake up from the jitters was to take a warm shower in the morning. Wiped dry the water droplets, I looked at the young girl in the mirror. She had a small face but had a pair of heroic eyebrows and unruly eyes, a high nose, a nose slightly curved, and full lips; her body was not too tall or too short, slim and even, the skin inherited from the mother's white, but because often run outside limbs a little bit more healthy wheat color. Still, it looks even more weekdays hidden in the clothes under the rounded two breasts and flat belly is exceptionally fair and soft. The slender waist is even and healthy, the small buttocks are pretty tight, and the legs extended and slim; no matter how you look at it, it is full of temptation. Wearing a prepared pink dress, I walked to the living room; the makeup artist and hair stylist around the mother round saw me, all exclaimed: "Mrs. Green, your daughter is wonderful!" Another assistant came over to dress me up with seven hands. Mom was so happy that her eyes narrowed into slits, not knowing whether she was pleased that people called her Mrs. Green or that they praised me. I've met Mr. Green a few times. Although he's the CEO of a big company, he's very easy-going, and I'm happy for her that she found him. After the wedding ceremony at the church, everyone came to Mr. Green's mid-level mansion to join the queue. The scene was energetic, but I felt bored, so I took a cup of juice and found a secluded corner to look at the noisy guests in boredom. As I looked around, out of the corner of my eye, I suddenly caught a pair of eyes staring at me; the gaze seemed to have the power to bind me tightly; although I have always known that I attract people's attention, this kind of view is too strange. I looked over suspiciously. He was an exceptionally outstanding man in his early twenties. His facial features were not surprising if taken apart; his eyes were too deep, and his eyebrows were a bit raised, but together, they had a charming elegance; he was wearing a black tuxedo with the groom's family's ceremonial flowers pinned to his chest. Who is this? My mind spun twice, and I remembered it was the son of Mr. Green's ex-wife, Francis. Rude. I looked away from him and ignored him for a moment, but I heard footsteps behind me after a while. I turned my head and saw Francis walking towards me. I turned my eyes, and already in front of me, I was contemplating whether to give him a polite smile or not when he contained a hint of a smirk and quickly leaned down to whisper in my ear, "I wish I knew what it was like to make love to you. " I froze for 3 seconds, and he was already walking away. I came back to my senses, anger blazing up. What is this? What is this? What is this? I wasn't trying to be an angel and make everyone happy and harmonious, or at least make things difficult for my mom in my new family. Still, this man, nominally my brother, the first time we met and talked to me, said only one thing - "I wish I knew what it was like to make love to you . ." I flung the juice in my hand hard on the floor. The shattering of the glass wasn't very jarring in the noisy hall, but it did draw attention to the fact that my mother, who was with Mr. Greene and chatting with someone, hurried over with worry at the sound of the noise, "Flora, what's wrong with you? Not feeling well?" Everyone focused on me; I saw my mom's worried and nervous face, slightly shaking hands. I knew she feared I would be unhappy and make a scene; this was the wedding she valued so much! I tightly hold the hand, shaking with anger, drop my eyes, and say, "It's okay. I'm a little dizzy, and I missed hitting the cup." Mom breathed a sigh of relief, turned back to Mr. Green with a smile, and explained, "The boy has a bit of low blood pressure and is prone to dizziness." Mr. Green hurriedly said, "Flora is too tired. Let Francis take her to rest!" Turning back to greet his son. Let that creep take me to rest? I was hastily about to refuse, but Francis had already walked over quickly, held my arm, and gave my mom a svelte and polite smile, "I'll take her to rest; don't worry about it."