Is a disclaimer really necessary?
Okay, okay. Well, I own nothing save for any characters I may or may not wind up creating.
Prologue
When my mother died, she had left me virtually penniless. Luckily, I was old enough to adequately support myself. Of course, the only way I could've done this was by dropping out of college, and I did that, partially because I didn't like it there anyway and finally had a valid excuse for quitting. I knew my mother would disapprove, but since I knew she had also dropped out when she was my age, I thought nothing of it, though her circumstances were quite different from mine.
I rented a tiny bedroom from a house in Queens, because rent was much cheaper there. My landlady was old and wrinkled. She had two old and wrinkled cats that hissed at me whenever I walked past. The lady liked me, though, somewhat… enough not to evict me for being late in rent for the first couple of months, when I had to get back on my feet.
Because I was persuasive, and because economic times were good, I was hired pretty quickly by a trendy restaurant in Manhattan. I never really thought about what I would do for the rest of my life, though. Despite the tediousness of being a waitress, I didn't really consider other career options. I guess I just figured I would live in that tiny room with that old landlady and her two old cats and work at that restaurant. I would make an honest, modest living. Never did it cross my mind that I might want to get married one day, or have children, or raise children.
Of course, as a child, I was full of dreams. Fantasies, really. When my mother was diagnosed with leukemia, I was in high school, and while the news came as a shock to me, my dreams persisted. Most cases of leukemia occur in children, but my mother's was one of more severity. I'm not sure why, but I kept on assuming that she would be okay, that we would both be okay. As time went by, I dissolved myself in these childishly optimistic assumptions, refusing to snap out of them till the doctor called and told me that the remission hadn't been successful. I soon found out that my bone marrow didn't match that of my mother, and so hopes of her survival were small. From then on, I became more like I am now: realistic, perhaps even a little painfully so.
I faced her death as well as anyone could've expected. I was neither overly cold nor overly sentimental. I was accepting. I cried. I was okay, after awhile. I moved on.
Although she didn't have much to leave me, I refused to be disappointed, for she had provided me with everything I really needed, for nineteen years. I never let myself forget that it was hard for her.
She had entrusted me with a small box, however. Unfortunately, the key was lost, and the lid was locked. I knew it was hollow, because I had shaken it to speculate its contents. I could not ask her what was in it, for when she told me about it, she was practically incoherent, and I was too mournful to think of such a question. So the box lay, disregarded, on the top shelf of my closet, collecting dust.
And now… Oh, God. I'm a complete cliché.
But maybe I should start at the beginning.
Okay, okay. Well, I own nothing save for any characters I may or may not wind up creating.
Prologue
When my mother died, she had left me virtually penniless. Luckily, I was old enough to adequately support myself. Of course, the only way I could've done this was by dropping out of college, and I did that, partially because I didn't like it there anyway and finally had a valid excuse for quitting. I knew my mother would disapprove, but since I knew she had also dropped out when she was my age, I thought nothing of it, though her circumstances were quite different from mine.
I rented a tiny bedroom from a house in Queens, because rent was much cheaper there. My landlady was old and wrinkled. She had two old and wrinkled cats that hissed at me whenever I walked past. The lady liked me, though, somewhat… enough not to evict me for being late in rent for the first couple of months, when I had to get back on my feet.
Because I was persuasive, and because economic times were good, I was hired pretty quickly by a trendy restaurant in Manhattan. I never really thought about what I would do for the rest of my life, though. Despite the tediousness of being a waitress, I didn't really consider other career options. I guess I just figured I would live in that tiny room with that old landlady and her two old cats and work at that restaurant. I would make an honest, modest living. Never did it cross my mind that I might want to get married one day, or have children, or raise children.
Of course, as a child, I was full of dreams. Fantasies, really. When my mother was diagnosed with leukemia, I was in high school, and while the news came as a shock to me, my dreams persisted. Most cases of leukemia occur in children, but my mother's was one of more severity. I'm not sure why, but I kept on assuming that she would be okay, that we would both be okay. As time went by, I dissolved myself in these childishly optimistic assumptions, refusing to snap out of them till the doctor called and told me that the remission hadn't been successful. I soon found out that my bone marrow didn't match that of my mother, and so hopes of her survival were small. From then on, I became more like I am now: realistic, perhaps even a little painfully so.
I faced her death as well as anyone could've expected. I was neither overly cold nor overly sentimental. I was accepting. I cried. I was okay, after awhile. I moved on.
Although she didn't have much to leave me, I refused to be disappointed, for she had provided me with everything I really needed, for nineteen years. I never let myself forget that it was hard for her.
She had entrusted me with a small box, however. Unfortunately, the key was lost, and the lid was locked. I knew it was hollow, because I had shaken it to speculate its contents. I could not ask her what was in it, for when she told me about it, she was practically incoherent, and I was too mournful to think of such a question. So the box lay, disregarded, on the top shelf of my closet, collecting dust.
And now… Oh, God. I'm a complete cliché.
But maybe I should start at the beginning.
