That Broken Path
Introduction
"Finish each day and be done with it. Tomorrow is a new day; you shall begin it serenely and with too high a spirit to be encumbered."
Who said that?
Emerson?
Well, he was damn wrong. Everything that occurs in your yesterdays affects your tomorrows. Not even magic can change that. Believe me, I've experienced it. Elbert Hubbard was a lot more accurate when he said that life is just one damned thing after another. After seventeen years of life I am intelligent enough to figure that out.
And who am I? No one of great importance. I'm Ellie Monroe, former student of the American Dueling Academy for Witches. I've never invented anything, held a public office, written a novel, or aided mankind in any immense way. I'm one of those people that blend into the sea of faces that make up the general population; I'm not popular, rich, gorgeous, famous, or outstandingly smart. But I still have a story of my own.
That story began in America in the year 1958. I don't know where I was born, or who gave birth to me. My earliest memories are from a large orphanage in California. Dirty floors, sterile-smelling beds, loud, undisciplined children….I remember it all like the back of my hand. As an orphan, I often lived in different places as I was shuffled from orphanage to orphanage and foster parent to foster parent. Yet it was something I grew up with; it was completely normal to me. Maybe if I had had a taste of a normal home and family, I would have realized what I missed. But since I didn't, I learned to cope with one rule: never form emotional bonds. Seriously, it was a stupid thing to do. As soon as I would become comfortable with my surroundings or begin to have feelings for the people who cared for me, I was thrust into a different setting with new strangers to face.
It could have been much worse, but I still saw and experienced things I never should have seen or heard. I witnessed fighting, screaming, bullying, hitting, violent drunkenness, martial rape…the list goes on and on. Eventually, I left with the firm idea that I could only trust myself, and certainly not men. Not that women didn't participate in the horrors I listed, but when they did, it wasn't nearly to the same degree. The women never smashed their fists into the walls, or forced themselves on their husbands. They might scream at their children, but never beat them up.
I wish I could forget.
I remember once stumbling upon a play entitled The Taming of the Shrew. I can't recall where I found the play, but I remember the way I was fascinated with the characters. I was probably about nine, and it took me more than two weeks to muddle my way through the thing. The character Katharina mesmerized me in particular. She was hard, coarse, nasty, and temperamental. As Shakespeare politely put it; a shrew. I thought she was a bitch.
But I loved her. Even at that age, I was able to recognize her misery and loneliness. Her desperation for a husband who would both appreciate and respect her stabbed me in the heart. It was the way I wanted a family. We were both poor, pained creatures, existing on the outskirts of society, just waiting to be found and made whole. We both shared a fury at how the world had alienated us. And we both desired love….so much that we both felt sucked dry like a throbbing, aching shell.
Katharina became my hero and friend. I loved the way she was able to fight back. I admired her independence, wittiness, and refusal to conform to a shallow world. Some part me recognized myself in her. I knew I was hardened, I knew I was course. And most of me didn't care. Still, I longed for someone to come into my life and tame me...to form me into the person I wished I could be. To this day, I believe that complex Shakespearean character helped me survive some of the hardest years in my life. As I traveled from orphanage to orphanage and from family to family, Katharina was the only one who stayed with me. And as I grew up, she became the only thing that could comfort me.
My life took a drastic turn late close to my 12th birthday. Although most of the orphanages and foster parents I stayed with over the years were a blur of unfamiliar faces and places, I remember one clearly. It was somewhere in middle of Montana…. basically in the middle of nowhere. The elderly couple I stayed with had no children and really no life. My first thought when I saw them was that we had at least those two things in common.
My first month living with the Monroes was boring and calm for someone nearly my age. The only thing for miles was rolling hills, and when you finally were able to reach the small town of Dunstone after a 45 minute car ride, the only thing that welcomed you was a group of dilapidated old buildings, a small drugstore, and a dirty dinner named "Old Sarah's Kitchen." Yeah, I know. Seriously exhilarating.
I settled in fairly quickly, but remained prepared for my next sudden move. Slowly, however, as the months passed, I began to wish that I could stay. Indeed, it looked as if Jane and Erik Monroe were considering adopting me. I had fallen in love with the grassy hills, the creek that trickled by the farm, and the small white house that I sometimes called "home." I really didn't want to leave. Honestly, it was probably the most peaceful time of my life.
One summer Monday, when Erik was at work and Jane was in the kitchen preparing lunch, I wandered into the attic. Dust assailed me from every side, but I remained brave through the onslaught and did my best to ignore the large cobwebs. I spent hours up there, discovering the charms that old pictures, books, clothes, and furniture hold for curious, younger generations. I tried on a yellowed wedding dress, tried to tap-dance on an old desk, played with an ancient typewriter, and paged through old picture books. Then, once I had exhausted the last entertainment the old relics could provide, I stumbled into an old chest. Quite literally, really. I had a nasty bruise on my hip for weeks.
There were a ton of papers in the chest, talking about things I didn't understand. There was a shiny cloak, a book called "Advanced Transfiguration," and a set of small hand mirrors. What attracted my attention the most were the two, thin sticks lying at the very bottom. While one was made from a dark wood and the other from a light, both were carved in pretty designs and were of about equal length. I picked up the one made from dark wood, and waved it about airily. You can imagine my shock when gold sparks flew out the end, landing on the wedding dress I had discarded and setting it on fire.
To this day, I can only guess what went through Jane's mind as I raced down from the attic, shrieking about magic fire. The elderly woman stared at me in confusion before smelling the smoke and running up the stairs I had just flew down. I was sure she would die up there, and that I would be sent to jail for murder. She returned a minute or so later, however, as composed as I had ever seen her, and only a little bit dusty. Through tears and hiccups of relief, I asked how she had put out the fire without any water. She was silent for a long time before telling me to wash up for dinner, and that we would discuss it when Erik came home.
That night was probably the most confusing of my life. I sat quietly, eyes wide as the Monroes carefully explained that magic really did exist, that they were a witch and wizard, and that, if I wanted, I could become one too. I, of course, had some trouble believing them, even through I had seen the gold sparks with my own eyes. In fact, I believed they were mocking me, and, shaking with anger, demanded proof.
Moving as if the weight of the world were on her shoulders, Jane slowly climbed the attic steps, returned with the dark stick, and pointed it at a potted marigold on the windowsill.
"What do you want me to turn it into?" she asked tiredly.
"Make it turn into the play The Taming of the Shrew!" I shouted.
A moment later, I watched as the flower shrunk in upon itself, flattened, and turned into a small book with the words "The Taming of the Shrew" emblazoned in gold on the front, and the picture of a beautiful woman below it. Trembling, I picked it up. The woman on the front cover turned and smiled at me. It was Katharina.
My stomach clenched, my head spun. An emotion that I had never experienced soared within my chest. It was at that moment that I decided that, if I could, I would become a witch.
Three weeks later, I found myself at the American Dueling Academy for Witches, or ADAM for short. Although at age twelve I was already an entire year behind the other children, I worked hard, and Jane and Erik adopted me with pride. I studied every spare moment I had, and worked constantly over the summer. Jane, who was an old Transfiguration instructor, helped me any time I need it, and although I never bonded the same with Erik, he still proved to be a great help with my Charms homework. It was the first time I ever had work that I felt I could throw myself into, and I enjoyed it. I learned fast, and at the end of my third year the school informed me that, if I so desired, I could skip fourth year and begin fifth.
Fifth year was probably the most amazing year of my life up to that point. I had a family who loved me and several good friends. Jane and Erik had always respected my need for freedom, and, trusting my judgment, kept only minimal watch over me. My grades were excellent, and I was named as one of ADAM's "top witches." Around Christmas, I met a boy named Devon. He was tall, handsome, blonde, friendly, and two years older than me. He spoke smoothly, confidently, and with an accent that could make a normal restaurant menu sound fascinating and slightly insinuating. We began dating, and after a while he introduced me to partying, popularity, and money. He told me he loved me. Merlin….I was so naïve. I believed him. I thought he was my knight in shining armor, come to sweep me off my feet and carry me off to the sunset. I thought his kisses and declarations of love meant something. I thought we would live happily ever after.
As always, things were too good to last. Sixth year was like returning to a long forgotten nightmare. Devon began to party with increasing regularity. Although underage, he started to drag me off to wizarding clubs to get drunk. I never had more than a drink or two, but would sit there and watch in alarm as he got himself utterly smashed. I suspected he was taking drugs. We nearly got in trouble with the police several times, and although I would never let my grades drop, Jane and Erik started to notice something was wrong. I was constantly pale, tired, and grouchy from lack of sleep. I never told them about Devon, or how he would try to get me drunk. I never told them how he would try to grope me, not heeding my protests. I never told them that I saw him steal once. Yet every time I looked at them, I saw disappointment in their features, and it nearly killed me.
I knew I had to do something, I just didn't know what. I wanted to save Devon, not bail out on him. After all, isn't that what my original parents must have done? Left me in an orphanage? Part of me...probably my common sense... screamed to stay away from Devon. It didn't matter that he said he loved me, and it didn't matter that he was the first person to ever show me physical affection. The other part told me that I was a shameful coward for even thinking such things. People who loved each other stayed together…no matter what.
I had always though that love would be some amazing, life changing experience, and I certainly didn't feel that way with Devon. Did that mean that I didn't love him? Or that he didn't love me? What a warped perception I had of love and life. I was so confused. Does anyone really understand those two concepts? I'm not sure. As someone once said, "There's a lot to be said for self-delusionment when it comes to matters of the heart." Looking back on it, I can tell I was certainly doing a lot of self-delusionment. I should have been able to see how he used me, and that he wasn't worth saving.
I finally came to the right decision, but it had taken me to long. The next time I saw him, he was high and completely drunk. I had only started to walk away, sickened, when he grabbed my arm, swung me into the wall, and began to kiss and grope me. I screamed as a nail dug into my back and tried to shove him off me. The next thing I knew, his fingers were wrapped around my throat, and I couldn't breathe. I scrambled to reach my wand, but it was just out of my reach. In that moment, I thought I would die.
Blackness was swirling around me when he reached down to shove off his pants. It was all I needed to slam my knee into his groin, snatch my wand, and hex him to hell and back…several times. I ignored his snarled threats of revenge, and left him in a full body-bind in a dark alley, hoping the spell would last for days.
Exactly a week later, someone committed arson on our home. I don't know that it was Devon, but I have always suspected. It was something he might have done while drunk, high, and wanting revenge. The detectives told me that it appeared that whoever committed the crime didn't intend for the entire house to burn down, but to instead merely cause a scare.
Why did the detectives tell me?
Because I was the only one who made it out alive.
I spent four weeks in the hospital recovering from second and third degree burns. Somewhere in the first week I was transferred to a wizard hospital, where my burns were treated so well that they are impossible to find today. But they couldn't do anything for the burning pain in my heart. When I had finally found a home and people to love me, they had been violently ripped from my life. I wasn't sure that my life was worth living anymore.
ADAM announced a one-student exchange program with a wizarding school named Hogwarts. I, along with half of the school, demanded that the student be me. But my grades and position in the school were too high to ignore, and when an owl arrived with a letter from Headmaster Dumbledore, formally asking if the student named Ellie Monroe would be granted permission to come to his school, the matter was decided.
I was going to England.
And privately, never planning to come back.
Author's Note: Hey you! Please, leave a review! This is one of my first attempts at writing fanfiction, and I'm a bit nervous. Tell me, was it good, bad, awful, exciting, boring...or worth continuing? I can only improve with feedback! (smiles)
Disclaimer: The only character in this story that is mine is Ellie Monroe. Any other characters you recognize belong to JK Rowling. This disclaimer will apply to any and all chapters following this one.