This is the prologue of my newest multi-chap, a story that has been writing itself in the back of my mind for months now. It is the only other story besides WKMTC I am truly committing myself to at the moment, but I am truly intending to finish it.

It is written in present tense, a choppier style, but I feel as though it fits a child's mindset. In any case, I hope you do enjoy the first of many chapters to come. :)

xXxXx

~Prologue~

Nine hundred fifty-four… Nine hundred fifty-five… Nine hundred fifty-six…

I think my nanny's forgotten me. We're supposed to be playing hide-and-seek, but I think she gave up without even bothering to try.

It wouldn't be the first time.

Nine hundred fifty-seven… Nine hundred fifty-eight…

Sometimes I wonder if she does this kind of thing because she's really a simple-minded American, as Uncle Ian always says, or because she's trying to get rid of me.

I think it's the latter.

Nine hundred fifty-nine… Nine hundred sixty…

She's not all that awful, though. At least she remembers my birthday. That's more than I can say about the last one. She didn't even mention it.

Nine hundred sixty-one… Nine hundred sixty-two…

Uncle Ian fired her after that, although I have a feeling her forgetfulness wasn't exactly the reason. I think it just threw him over the edge. Or perhaps it was my tears.

Nine hundred sixty-three...

I've never understood how it was possible for her to overlook something so obvious. When she didn't say anything, I simply thought she was very good at surprises. But after a while, when there was no cake, no presents…

He promised to make up for it, though. I knew it was only to cheer me up, but I intended to keep him to his word - I even made him pinky swear. So this year, for my tenth birthday, I finally get to do what I've never done before - spend my birthday with Uncle Ian.

For most children, birthdays are a celebration. For me, it's agony waiting to happen. I've often wondered why things always seem to go so wrong. All of my friends throw elaborate parties, spending thousands of dollars in a matter of hours for one lousy occasion. One even hired a travelling circus – elephant included. But for me, all I've ever asked for is a day where nothing goes wrong, a day where my nanny doesn't forget to buy a cake and my uncle actually stays home with me.

Because he never does.

Every birthday since I can remember, he disappears bright and early, sometimes to work and occasionally because of some "emergency" situation with the stock exchange, before coming back at approximately six o'clock in the evening. I've even started timing him.

I don't know why he does this. Every year, without fail, he finds some excuse to vanish into thin air. Even when my birthday falls on a Sunday, the one day of the week where he operates from his home office, he manages to spend it away from me. It's as though I have the plague for one day out of every year.

The only time I actually see him is when he gets back. Whenever he steps inside that gigantic mahogany door, he holds a beautiful present all wrapped up with a fancy bow and shiny wrapping paper. Then we sit down to whatever delicious meal the chef has whipped up for me before finding something special to do for entertainment. Well, more special than what we usually do before bedtime – play chess and read a story.

But tomorrow is going to be different. I'm determined of it. No nanny trying to entertain me until Uncle Ian gets home, no counting down the hours until he walks in that front door – just me and him. The two of us for one whole day doing whatever I want.

This may finally be the perfect birthday.

It's almost unrealistic how wonderful everything is. After all these years, I finally get my ultimate wish. Or the next best thing, anyway. Not even Uncle Ian could get me what I really want. If he could, I'm sure he would have done it ages ago. But unfortunately, I know mothers don't wrap well. Especially dead ones.

For as long as I can remember, she's always been that way. Dead. Without a photograph, I can't even picture her face in my mind.

Those photos are my lifeline.

Along with a few items that once belonged to her, they are the only things in this whole wide world I have to remember her by. Even then, it's barely anything. That's why I have to try so hard to keep my mum alive. It's difficult, though, because it almost seems as if the world – and Uncle Ian – are trying to forget that she ever even existed.

Or maybe… maybe they're trying to erase the fact that she never really died.

I don't know where these thoughts come from; I just keep having them. It makes no sense, but something inside of me refuses to believe that she's really dead. I've tried asking Uncle Ian about it, but whenever I do, he clams up. Either that, or he finds a convenient way of changing the subject.

I know he's hiding something.

I suppose I've always known it, though. Because everything, whether inside or out of our stony-walled mansion, is a complete mystery to me. Whenever I leave this place – a rare time at that – it's never alone. And even in here, in this place that I've spent my whole almost-ten years, I feel like an outsider. Maybe even a prisoner.

A prisoner. That's exactly what I am. They control what I know, where I go, who I talk to - everything about my life is tightly contained and regulated by Uncle Ian and the staff on his payroll. When I was little, I ignored it, probably because I was too afraid of what I might find if I started digging deep enough. But now that I'm turning ten - double digits - I think it's high time that I get over that fear.

No more fraidy-cat Michelle.

Nine hundred ninety-nine… One thousand.

That's it. Game over.

I win.