Sometimes it's hard to say exactly when a story starts. Sometimes that moment isn't very clear. Because for most people, life is pretty much the same every day: dull, boring, familiar, comfortable. Nothing really big ever happens, no huge event, no life-changing phenomenon. Life goes on with its usual, monotonous way. That's the way it is.
But other times, it's quite easy to say when a story starts. For me, I'd say it was the day of my twelfth birthday –the birthday's not the important part though. The important part is… well, I'll tell you that a bit later. Let's not rush things, heh?
Short introduction: my name is Pandora Brandion; I live in a crappy old apartment in New York with my heroin-addicted junkie of a father. Oh, and I go every day to a stupid school where I get perfect grades and have zero friends.
That sounds exactly like the beginning of a fairy tale, doesn't it?
And about my first name. You were probably gonna ask anyway, so I better explain. Trust me, I've spent numerous sleepless nights, tossing and turning in my bed, asking myself why couldn't I have been named something normal, like Lily or Maria or whatever else? Why did I have to be named Pandora? Like the woman who involuntarily let loose every single bad thing into the world? You know, Pandora's frickin' box? I could've asked for a better name. A more common name.
My dad says that it was my mom's idea. There's another weird thing about my life: I've never seen my mother. I don't even know what she looks like… although I do know her eyes' color, but that's just a deduction. I figured since my father had light brown eyes, I must've gotten my strange, deep purple eyes from my mom. I'm not at all sure; I could just as well have gotten them from my grandmother or grandfather, or uncle or aunt. I've never met them either; my father's pretty much my only family. Oh joy.
Anyway, on with the story… The day of my twelfth birthday, 4th of April 2004, I woke up, as usual, in my ice-cold little bed. Just to tell you, you don't really feel anything abnormal the morning of the day your life changes. At the beginning, it just feels like any other day. Well, that was how it was for me. I woke up, opened my eyes, remembered I had a whole day of school and work ahead of me, groaned and rolled over. I got dressed, took a quick shower, brushed my teeth and swallowed my bowl of disgusting cereal. My dad was, as usual, passed out on the sofa, an arm over his pillow and snoring loudly. There was a half-empty bottle on the table.
I took the bottle and emptied it in the kitchen sink; I knew there was no point in even just sniffing the liquid beforehand. Unlike my idiot of a father, I don't particularly enjoy the smell of rancid alcohol early in the morning.
I then took my backpack and left the apartment. My school was pretty close to home, so I didn't mind walking to it; it barely took ten minutes. Sometimes those minutes seemed to fly by at the speed of light as I got closer and closer to the place I dreaded going to every day of the week.
As I turned a corner, I saw the familiar orange (I hate that color) building. I gritted my teeth. Welcome to Hell.