A/N: This is not my story. It's Annaleighs. I will not beg you to review like the other people on this site. If you want to read it, and you want to review it, then you can. I would be glad if you liked Annaleigh's story, but not heartbroken if you didn't. All that really matters is reading something you may enjoy, and for those lucky moments, getting to experience someone else's life, and knowing what they have to go through every day.

One

I didn't know what to say.

The lights were blinding me and it was all I could do not to shield my eyes. I could feel the warmth radiating from the lights, but mostly from the alive chemistry before me. A light blush crept to my cheeks and I silently cursed myself.

Here Damien was, possibly the most gorgeous man alive, on his knees begging for my forgiveness. Hands together, pleading, eyes wide with lust. From a front row seat, it would seem like he loved me. He looked like he loved me. He acted like he loved me. That one word caught me off guard and reminded me what I was here to do.

It's all it was and all it would ever be — acting.

I put my hand on his shoulder like rehearsed, pausing briefly to search for the meaningful words I thought I knew so well. Somehow, though, I just couldn't find the words. Where were they, these words I had practiced so excessively? The man kneeling below me sent me a look, his eyes no longer looking lovingly at me.

"Rosalina," he said, nudging me with his eyes. "Say something. You have to love me. You must!"

I stared at him. What was I to say? I couldn't think like me, though. Not like Annaleigh. I had to think like Rosalina. She was who I was. The character I had become.

Gracefully, I parted Damien's clutched hands, bringing them into mine. "Damien," I whispered, knowing all ears could still hear me. I paused, ignoring his confused look. I wasn't Annaleigh anymore. I was Rosalina. "My heart belongs to you and only you until eternity. But my head belongs to me and I cannot ignore it any longer."

I released his hands and stepped away from him. His bewildered expression worked well for him; though I knew this time it wasn't acting.

"You've betrayed me for the final time," I said, not only to Damien but to every soul in the room. My voice streaked confidence throughout as I turned toward him again and said softer, "I love you, but I am Rosalina and I must go."

I looked meaningfully at him, feeling pain and regret and love. I was Rosalina.

With that I turned around and exited the stage, not waiting for the curtain to fall. I knew what would happen right before the crowd would erupt into applause. The two pieces of velvet would drop down from their respective corners, overlapping each other, swaying until they finally came to a gradual, peaceful stop.

"Great going, Annaleigh."

"Yeah, way to forget your lines."

I kept walking, knowing full well what just happened. I had panicked and improvised. I was not ashamed of it though. I had done what I had been trained to do. And that was act.

"And Scott was so confused," they continued, following me. "Way to throw him off."

"Yeah, way to go," another echoed.

Slowly, I turned around, waiting until I had both of their eyes locked.

"What're your names again?"

They rolled their eyes. "We've told you like a million times before."

I just looked at them blankly, then headed for the door.

"I know you know my name," Camille called. "I don't know why you pretend that you don't."

I turned around, still walking backward toward the door. "It's called acting. It's what I do every day, four hours a day, since I was four. It's what I just did for that entire performance and every show before that. It's something you two should try sometime."

They stared at me, trying to read my expression. I shook my head in disbelief and sauntered through the doors.

"Annaleigh."

I heard him speak my name and I turned around, already on defense. Scott — the actor who played Damien — was leaning there against the door.

"What?" I said, not trying to hide my irritation.

"I just wanted to say—"

"Yeah I forgot my lines. Whatever."

"—good job today," he finished.

I squinted my eyes. "Excuse me?"

"You forgot your lines," he said, staring at me.

I stared right back, not sure where he was going.

"But you came right back and just…what's the word?"

"Improvised," I said, emotionless.

"Yeah! Everyone forgets their lines but it takes a true actress to recover like you did."

He pushed his black hair out of his eyes and waited for my response.

"Oh. Thanks," I said, unsure what to really say.

He smiled a crooked smile. "Just don't do it again because you made me look bad."

I should have known it wouldn't be that easy. This was Scott.

I laughed and shook my head. "Scott, you're an ass."

He stared at me in shock, then slowly smiled. I smiled right back. This time, I was Annaleigh.

End scene. Exit stage left.

I didn't know what to think as I walked home that day. The wind whispered and wrapped itself around me like a caress. The sun sang with color and brightness as it chanted to me.

I'm not used to forgetting lines in front of an audience. I was, however, used to being harassed by the girls whom I'd already forgotten the names of. It didn't really matter to me, though. It didn't. I could care less what they thought of me and how I performed in a show. I knew I was a talented actress and that's all that mattered to me. Nothing else. I was just pissed off about my sudden lapse of memory. No, the daily confrontation was just the cherry on top. The delightful mint on my pillow. The delicious dessert after an already wonderful meal.

I hated feeling like the underdog. Like I couldn't stand up for myself. Like I needed someone to lean on. God, I could punch someone.

I'd say I have a slight temper. More than slight, actually. When I was ten, my dad made me take an anger management class. Of course, the reason why it ended so abruptly probably confirmed why I needed the class in the first place.

Scott was, like I told him, an ass. He only cared about himself and his image, so it surprised me when he paid me a compliment. Though obviously it was a compliment with a twist, which I guess sums Scott up perfectly. Unfortunately, Scott is an ass with a great talent for acting. In every performance we two have the lead roles, and I always end up having to pretend that I'm in love with him just like every other girl in the grade. Pathetic.

As I approached my house, I saw my mom's blue truck parked in the driveway. Good. My dad was home.

I pushed open the front door of my house and yelled into it. "Dad, I'll be in the truck!" then closed the door shut without waiting for a response. I climbed into the passenger seat and waited for him patiently.

I looked up and saw him open the door, peering inside. "Crappy day?"

I nodded, not even feeling the need to explain myself anymore.

He stepped inside and revved up the engine. For a while we didn't go anywhere; we just sat there on our street — Cornflower Way, probably the stupidest name ever. I breathed in the all too familiar smell of my mom. Her new signature scent, though it seemed very old to me. I knew what had become of her, yet here I was, sitting in her truck with my dad. The man who had cared for her, and I, being the daughter that loves her. Loved? Not even I, the romantic and gorgeous Rosalina, knew the answer to that.

My mother hadn't always been a bitch. For a small scene of my life she actually played the role of the typical mother: packed my lunch, made muffins in the morning, and helped me with my homework. I could confide in her about my life. She would braid my hair while we laughed just for the sake of laughing. We were the type of mother and daughter that people always asked if we were sisters. We both were flattered, though for different reasons.

I was never a big fan of my blond hair. Never was, never will be. However my mother was. She was always reminding me how lucky I was to have gotten my father's hair genes as opposed to hers. She had grown up wishing she had blond hair. I, on the other hand, really couldn't give a crap what color my hair was. To me, they were just lifeless white-colored strands attached to my scalp that got tangled when I didn't brush them and greasy when I didn't wash them.

One night when she was braiding my hair, she suddenly stopped and stared at my reflection in the mirror.

"What?" I'd asked, immediately self-conscious.

"Nothing," she said, though I could tell it wasn't. I gave her a look. "I was just noticing what a variety you have, that's all."

"Excuse me?"

"Look at you, Annaleigh." She forced me to look at myself in the mirror, one braid undone. Or one braid done. Depended how you looked at it. "Blond hair with a tiny tint of pink in it. And God, those deep brown eyes? To die for. Face it, Anny, you've got it."

"Got what?"

"It! You've got vanilla, strawberry, and chocolate all rolled into one. I never know what I'm gonna get with you. Will it be vanilla? Or is it a chocolate day? All I know is that you're the whole damn ice cream cone, and a gorgeous one at that."

I remember feeling so safe then. So loved. Nothing could be better than that moment.

Then one day it all went to hell.

At a young age my mother had been an alcoholic. Couldn't start, couldn't stop. All she could do was drink. When my parents met, my father gave her an ultimatum. He convinced her to quit cold turkey. Apparently it had been difficult for her, but she managed to do it for my dad. For her marriage and for her life.

Once I even asked her why she had quit. She just smiled at me and said, "Your father made me see the bright side of things, that's all."

One weekend when I was fourteen, my mom went on a business trip to Las Vegas. I was surprised to discover that my father was not weary that his wife, the former alcoholic, was visiting the drinking capital of the world. Apparently, he "trusted" her.

I'd just shook my head.

Despite my dad's trust in her, she returned home drunk and officially back on the wagon. She said her bright side on life had changed and it definitely involved alcohol this time.

My dad tried to convince her otherwise, but it was clear her mind was made up for good this time. Suddenly, in just one significant weekend, my sister was gone and my life had completely changed.

"Where to this time?" my dad asked then in the truck.

I looked down at the leather seats, feeling how smooth they were, yet sensing how tough they needed to be. How tough I needed to be. I saw the broken window next to me that had never gotten redone. The chipped paint that had never gotten repainted. This stupid car that had never gotten sent to the dump. I put my hands on my knees and leaned forward, ready for the familiar lurch of the truck speeding down Cornflower Way.

"Anywhere," I said, "but here."

He nodded, then pressed the gas and together we drove off, leaving the rest of our lives behind.