The Possibility of Dreams

There was something about her. Something magnetic. I was drawn to her like a moth to a light. Maybe it was her fearless personality, the way she was the first to jump into a pool of icy water. She didn't care what they said about her, she simply flipped them off and continued her day. She had a tattoo of a moon on her back, but she didn't like to show it off. And when she laughed, she radiated an energy unparalleled by any other girl I had ever met. She was beautiful.


1. Prologue

My earliest memory is from my third birthday party. It's foggy, and fragmented, but and maybe all of what I remember isn't true, but I get the general idea of what happened. My parents invited a few of the kids from the daycare I went to, or so I'm told. I don't remember that bit. What I do remember is disliking almost all of them. They were loud and obnoxious, and they took my presents before I even had a chance to play with them. I remember the cake, a pink butterfly with a blue body. It was chocolate. After the party, I was upset because all of the other kids ate all the cake and there was none left over.

When I was five, my parents decided it was time to get a pet. I wanted a dog, but my parents didn't have the time for one, so instead they bought a cat. She was a little black cat with white socks and a white dot on her nose. Half of her tail was white, too. It looked like she had dipped it in a pail of paint. My parents told me that I could name her, since we couldn't get a dog, like I wanted. I chose to name her Squeaky, after her tiny mew.

When I was six, we moved. My parents told me it was because we wanted to be closer to our family. We lived in Maine, but both my parents were originally from the UK, as were their parents. So that's where we went. We moved into this house across the street from another girl my age. Her name was Ella, and she instantly became my best friend.

The summer I turned eight, I went and stayed with my Mom's parents for a few weeks. They weren't strict, but they were very responsible, I guess. They were the kind of people that had three cats, two Siamese, one, a stray, picked up off the road. My grandmother spent nearly all her time in the garden, perfecting what already was beyond amazing. My grandfather went golfing on the weekends. They always had some sort of pie for desert, and sat on the porch to eat dinner as often as they could.

A year later, when I was nine, I returned to my grandparents house for one more summer. My parents drove me up, visited a few days, and drove back down. The weeks spent with my grandparents were as predictable as the year before, nothing extraordinary or unexpected.

Until it was time for me to leave.

I remember packing all my stuff up in my blue suitcase with my initials monogrammed on the side. All my birthday presents, my shoes, my toys I was growing tired of. I was so ready to go home and see Squeaky and Ella. 

The phone rang, and my grandfather picked it up. After "Hello?" he didn't say anything else. I was too young to read his face, but I could tell something was wrong. My suspicions were only confirmed when he hobbled over to me and hugged me tightly.

My parents had been in an accident, he said. They weren't coming back.

I don't know what they expected me to do. They stared at me apprehensively, looking me over as if I was a bomb about to explode. Maybe they expected me to cry or deny it, but I didn't. I didn't know what to do.

A week later, I moved in with my Aunt Donna, my godmother. She was my dad's little sister, and I loved her. She loved cooking and cussing and drinking. But she wasn't irresponsible. She didn't get drunk, and she didn't cuss around me until I was eleven. But that didn't stop her from living. She was in her early thirties when I moved in, and I could tell she had no intention of getting married. 

I was thankful for her crazed state of mind. She pushed me out of my comfort zone. When I was thirteen, she replaced my grape juice with a small glass of red wine. I hated it. She was the one who always got upset with my teachers, and told me to go out with my friends, even if it was a school night and I had a test in the morning. She didn't care much for eating healthy, yet she wasn't overweight.

I appreciated this because it meant that I had to be responsible myself. I made myself stay inside and study when Donna told me to go out and meet boys. When she put a plate of fried chicken on the table I decided to skip dessert, despite her remarks that I was nowhere near getting fat.

She shaped me into responsibility in the most fun way possible. There were no strict rules, so I made them myself.

Even though I had become the responsible one of the two, that didn't stop me from listening to Donna every now and then. I went to parties, drank a little, and I even went out and got a tattoo once. It was a moon on the back of my left shoulder blade. It might have been the only thing Donna was unsure about. Eventually she gave in. I know she only wanted to prevent me from getting a ton of tattoos, but I knew I only wanted the one. 

Donna raised me well. She never really seemed like a parent, and always made me feel as if I was on vacation. I could never complain about anything she did, really. I loved the way things were, with just the two of us. After Ella, she was my best friend.

The day I turned eighteen, my story began.

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