My name's Cael Yetinca. I'm the adopted son of William Yetinca, the
incredibly rich founder of Yetinca perfumed potions, if you thought my name
sounded familiar. This is my story. The good and the bad of it. The long
and the short of it. The trials and tribulations, the dizzying highs, the
terrifying lows, the creamy middles, the - uh, perhaps I should get on with
it.
I was born who knows where, and I was named Cameron by my birth parents. Late one night when I was about two, my house... or mansion, or tent, or whatever, was broken into by Team Rocket. I have relived the experience too many times in a dream, seeing the white-uniformed thugs walk into our room, me and my sister's, I mean. They took everything of value. Then I heard loud noises, my birth father shouting at them. Then my birth mother. Then two almost simultaneous gunshots. Then silence. I like to think my birth father bashed one of the rockets up, or even killed him, but I know that isn't true. In my dream, my birth father is sometimes blonde, sometimes black-haired, but mostly red-haired, like my sister and me. I never actually saw any of it, of course. I guess it made it easier for me to deal with if I imagined my parents being courageous, not the pleading that would've actually happened. I can imagine my mother looking at my dead father; her purple eyes full of tears... Or perhaps she had red hair, and my birth father had purple eyes... or perhaps neither of them had them, and my sister and me inherited them from our grandparents. Who knows? All I do know is my sister and I winded up in some orphanage. I stayed there till I was about three. I 'remember' seeing these two very well dressed people coming, and taking me away from my sister. I dunno if I cried, being taken away from her. I like to think I did, anyway. It makes the memory of leaving her less painful. But that memory is only from a dream, too.
The first actual memory I had was when I was about five. I remember leaving my huge bedroom, and going down the lift. There was a panel of buttons that were close to the ground especially for me. I pressed the one for floor one. I was in the marble foyer, then. Stacey, my personal maid, picked me up.
"Good Morning, Master Cael. Time for breakfast!" She said, carrying me to the breakfast room. It was small, in comparison to other rooms, but I guess it was heaps big. Compared with a room in a normal house, anyway. There were paintings by semi-famous artists - the famous artists' works were left to the main rooms. I was eating my gourmet pancakes, and sipping the Ocra tea that I have had with every meal for as long as I can remember. Then my 'mother' said something. Her name's Jasmine. "Good morning, Cael. You're getting to be old enough to have a pokémon!"
"Really? Which pokémon did you have in mind?" Dad said. Almost everyone knows his name's William. I didn't know if he was talking to Mum or me.
"I wanna poonyta!!" I said, but it turned out he was asking Mum. She'd already come up with a pokémon. Just my luck. She smiled, though.
"They're a bit too dangerous for you, Cael. I think a nice, safe Persian would be a good pokémon for you." So they'd already decided. I was too young to really care. But I guess it was still a turning-point type thing. Two hours later I was presented with a dwarf Persian. It had a golden collar with the word 'Saliba' written on it in diamonds. It means peace. I forget which language, though. Saliba was a great friend, even though she wasn't the Ponyta I actually wanted. She was really the only friend I did have. 'Till I went to school, anyway. My parents put me through this private school. Y'know, the whole uniforms, snobby teachers, everything. I wonder why they didn't make me go to a tutor? They could've. They must've wanted me to have friends and all. I remember the first day. I was six years old. I was in my uniform, long grey pants, white shirt, grey tie, and a grey blazer - basically a big jacket, if you've never seen one before. And black shoes. I looked like a mini version of Dad. But if everyone's wearing the uniform, you don't feel so stupid. The school was called 'St Anthony's School For Boys'. It wasn't run by nuns or anything, but there were prayers and stuff. I've always been a Catholic. I don't go around preaching or anything. But I'm meant to be talking about school. So I had my schoolbag with the school logo on it, the school books, everything. My hair was combed. First thing, there was a prayer. Then the whole calling out the role thing. My name was last, and the teacher didn't seem to believe I was who I was, so to speak. The kids looked at me. I felt. strange. I was pretty happy the teacher didn't make anything of it. We just did the whole learning how to read bit. During recess and lunch on my first day I was popular. Mostly asking about my house and stuff. I thought they'd all have the same sort of house as mine. I guess my house is one in a million. Or a billion. Well, not many people in my school were quite as well off as me. Lots had mansions and stuff like that. But there weren't any houses quite as big as mine. I thought everyone had a McDonalds, KFC and Pizza Haven in their house. How was I meant to know any different?
I was born who knows where, and I was named Cameron by my birth parents. Late one night when I was about two, my house... or mansion, or tent, or whatever, was broken into by Team Rocket. I have relived the experience too many times in a dream, seeing the white-uniformed thugs walk into our room, me and my sister's, I mean. They took everything of value. Then I heard loud noises, my birth father shouting at them. Then my birth mother. Then two almost simultaneous gunshots. Then silence. I like to think my birth father bashed one of the rockets up, or even killed him, but I know that isn't true. In my dream, my birth father is sometimes blonde, sometimes black-haired, but mostly red-haired, like my sister and me. I never actually saw any of it, of course. I guess it made it easier for me to deal with if I imagined my parents being courageous, not the pleading that would've actually happened. I can imagine my mother looking at my dead father; her purple eyes full of tears... Or perhaps she had red hair, and my birth father had purple eyes... or perhaps neither of them had them, and my sister and me inherited them from our grandparents. Who knows? All I do know is my sister and I winded up in some orphanage. I stayed there till I was about three. I 'remember' seeing these two very well dressed people coming, and taking me away from my sister. I dunno if I cried, being taken away from her. I like to think I did, anyway. It makes the memory of leaving her less painful. But that memory is only from a dream, too.
The first actual memory I had was when I was about five. I remember leaving my huge bedroom, and going down the lift. There was a panel of buttons that were close to the ground especially for me. I pressed the one for floor one. I was in the marble foyer, then. Stacey, my personal maid, picked me up.
"Good Morning, Master Cael. Time for breakfast!" She said, carrying me to the breakfast room. It was small, in comparison to other rooms, but I guess it was heaps big. Compared with a room in a normal house, anyway. There were paintings by semi-famous artists - the famous artists' works were left to the main rooms. I was eating my gourmet pancakes, and sipping the Ocra tea that I have had with every meal for as long as I can remember. Then my 'mother' said something. Her name's Jasmine. "Good morning, Cael. You're getting to be old enough to have a pokémon!"
"Really? Which pokémon did you have in mind?" Dad said. Almost everyone knows his name's William. I didn't know if he was talking to Mum or me.
"I wanna poonyta!!" I said, but it turned out he was asking Mum. She'd already come up with a pokémon. Just my luck. She smiled, though.
"They're a bit too dangerous for you, Cael. I think a nice, safe Persian would be a good pokémon for you." So they'd already decided. I was too young to really care. But I guess it was still a turning-point type thing. Two hours later I was presented with a dwarf Persian. It had a golden collar with the word 'Saliba' written on it in diamonds. It means peace. I forget which language, though. Saliba was a great friend, even though she wasn't the Ponyta I actually wanted. She was really the only friend I did have. 'Till I went to school, anyway. My parents put me through this private school. Y'know, the whole uniforms, snobby teachers, everything. I wonder why they didn't make me go to a tutor? They could've. They must've wanted me to have friends and all. I remember the first day. I was six years old. I was in my uniform, long grey pants, white shirt, grey tie, and a grey blazer - basically a big jacket, if you've never seen one before. And black shoes. I looked like a mini version of Dad. But if everyone's wearing the uniform, you don't feel so stupid. The school was called 'St Anthony's School For Boys'. It wasn't run by nuns or anything, but there were prayers and stuff. I've always been a Catholic. I don't go around preaching or anything. But I'm meant to be talking about school. So I had my schoolbag with the school logo on it, the school books, everything. My hair was combed. First thing, there was a prayer. Then the whole calling out the role thing. My name was last, and the teacher didn't seem to believe I was who I was, so to speak. The kids looked at me. I felt. strange. I was pretty happy the teacher didn't make anything of it. We just did the whole learning how to read bit. During recess and lunch on my first day I was popular. Mostly asking about my house and stuff. I thought they'd all have the same sort of house as mine. I guess my house is one in a million. Or a billion. Well, not many people in my school were quite as well off as me. Lots had mansions and stuff like that. But there weren't any houses quite as big as mine. I thought everyone had a McDonalds, KFC and Pizza Haven in their house. How was I meant to know any different?