Vulture Chapter One, a dollanganger saga fanfic

"VULTURE" by Alessandra Azzaroni

STORY LAST UPDATED ON 05/02/2003

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Written in Australia. Sovereign Hill, Ballarat, is a real place in the state of Victoria in Australia.

CHAPTER ONE

I dared to think of myself as "normal", but what was "normal"? I was not talented nor untalented, attractive nor unattractive… I was stuck in the middle with seemingly nowhere to go. I'd forever live in the infamous Gap of life. The Gap was not an American store in this case, but rather a category where the non-categorised people were. The Gap was not officially known, but it was something I had named, something I'd created.
And I created many a thing in my time. I was uncertain what to do with my future, so I did a bit of everything. I took classes outside the standard school ones, and I filled my free time with everything from cello, to singing, to swimming, to tennis, to cricket, to cooking, to giving blood, to volunteering at the local hospital, to reading, to writing, to painting, to listening to music, to watching television… I thought I was such a good person, running around doing everything. I had to try everything if I was to discover what I would do for a career.
I had my courses all chosen for my first year doing the Victorian Certificate of Education, Year 11. I had chosen English, Further Maths, Psychology, French, Music Craft and Twentieth-Century History. I had many dreams in life but I tried to shut them out, for they were not quite realistically achievable, and an office job wouldn't suit me, so I believed I'd end up as a dole bludger, filling in the form each week to say that I had "tried" to apply for three jobs, to get a pay packet from the government. This was the life I imagined, when I wanted to hurt myself by thinking of the future. All the other millions of fellow Australians on the dole would all be in the Gap, the same Gap that I was in. Each country had their own Gap, and we were all united because we all had a Gap. It was a Global Gap.
My mother had asked me numerous times, "Have you decided what you want to do for a living yet?"
Non-committing, I'd reply, "I'm leaving my options open."
I had not yet grown up. When we're young, we change our dream job regularly. I had wanted to be the standard firewoman, policewoman, doctor and many others.

Show me what I am, for you know I can't see
Please show me shades of what I'm supposed to be
Please give me guidance to light my path of life
And please do it fast, before I take the knife

I often wrote a lot of things; novels that would never be completed, short stories that were short and usually without meaning, useless poetry, prose that was really just complaining. I wouldn't have called myself a writer, for I was far too mediocre to be categorised as such (another downfall to being in the Gap).
But whenever something occurred to me, I wrote it down. I knew that it was all probably terrible, without quality, and I was the first person always to admit that. I was my own harsh critic. But at times I was the only one to think and speak highly of myself, and what I did. If you don't blow your own trumpet, no one else will.
I knew how I appeared to my friends - arrogant, but always in a playful way; joking around; extremely moody… and clearly different from everyone else. I never had had a best friend, and at numerous stages in my life I had no friends. I'd never had a boyfriend, and I was sweet sixteen-and-a-bit, and never been kissed. Such was life for us in the Gap.
As a non-conformist who understood myself, I never wore makeup or nail polish, and I didn't go out trend shopping. I never had drugs, drank alcohol, smoked, had underage sex or dyed/streaked my hair.
My hair was naturally a strange colour, which was really a mix of colours, depending on lighting, cleanliness and whatever else. My straight hair was parted in the middle and stopped halfway on the way to my elbows. Its colours consisted of black, chestnut brown, auburn, burgundy (though how I got that, I'd never know), gold, silver and copper. My friends compared it to that of the latest international rock chick… but rock chicks do not play the cello.

My hair is like me
We are everything, but not one

As an only child, my parents had high expectations, placing all of their wishes upon me, for I was the only person around to carry the anvil of such a burden. They were both in their early twenties when I was born. I didn't even know if they had completed university, if they had even gone to uni.
My mother worked for a telephone company, and my father worked in an electronics superstore. Not exactly extremely money enhancing, but maybe they belonged in the Gap, too. But they couldn't be in the Gap, for Gap-fillers, as I referred to us, would not place expectations upon other Gap-fillers.

My mother shoots me down with her laser-beam glare
And I fall while she throws up into the toilet

There are a number of things you think of when you hear people throw up. Food poisoning, overeating, bulimia, excessive alcohol consumption, ill health, disease and pregnancy.
My mother was pregnant. And one afternoon, instead of hassling me, she actually seemed pleased to see me. She threw her late-thirty-something-year-old arms around me, and pulled me close to her as she squealed, "Leesie, I'm pregnant!"
Had she not hugged, smiled or squealed, I still would've known she was happy. She always called me Leesie when she was happy. I didn't want a cutesy little name. I had been christened as Lisa, and that was how it should've always been.
I hugged her back awkwardly, unused and uncomfortable with physical contact with anyone. "Good for you, Mum."
She pulled away from me, sat me down at the kitchen table and proceeded to tell the details. "I just came back from the doctor. Three weeks, Leesie, and we're both happy and healthy. Well, maybe not happy," she added with a girlish giggle. "But we hormonal mums-to-be are entitled to a little bitchiness."
I had the decency not to remind her that she already was a mother - to me.
"I've called your father," she continued. "He's bringing home champagne."
"You shouldn't drink while pregnant," I pointed out.
"Then you two can drink it." Turning her cheerfulness down a notch, she said somewhat seriously, "I know that people your age drink, but you don't. I want you to fit in properly with your peers, Lisa, I want you to be like them."
This was incredible. "You want me to drink and smoke and turn this place into a shag shack when you and Dad are away for a night?"
She laughed. "You're so uptight, Leesie. It'll do you good to have a little drink, help you lighten up."
I was not hearing this; I was not hearing this…
"Whatever you say, mate," I mumbled, barely moving my lips, my eyes anywhere but the bubble-headed mother of mine.
"Look at me, Lisa," she said, and I turned to face her.
She scrutinised me, and I felt self-conscious. Did my eyebrows need a pluck? Did I have blemishes? Had I not blown my nose properly? Were my eyelashes clumped? Did I need more lip balm?
"You've got such gorgeous eyes, just like your father's," she commented. "And your hair…"
Her hair was very different from mine. While mine hadn't decided what colour it wanted to be, hers was blonde and thin, but bouncy and layered. Her very blondeness made her seem like a happier person, and maybe she hassled me for a good reason, to convince me that I really needed to make a decision about my future. Maybe she did have good intentions after all.
"New Year's is coming up," she said. "Are you going anywhere?"
"I've been invited to Jenny's," I answered.
"And will there be boys there?"
"Mum, they're just mates!"
"Oh, come on, Leesie, you need a New Year's kiss! I reckon you'd be quite a stunner if you prettied yourself up a bit more."
"Yeah, yeah," I mumbled.
"I'm gonna help you before you go out on New Year's," she told me. "And you can't say no, because I'm a bitchy pregnant woman." She fake-growled.
"Well, if it'll make you happy…"

My mother wants me to be pretty like her, but I'm not
We don't even look alike