A/N: Heres an experimental story. Maybe 3/OC,4/OC & 1/OCNot too sure on Genre.Happy New Year (and happy B-day to me:P)
Yume
Chapter One:
Elaine
Dream: n 1 the ideas or fancies passing through the mind of a person sleeping. 2 memories of the past or thoughts of what may happen. 3 state of being occupied, daydream. 4 a beautiful or wonderful person.
They say that everyone dreams though some wake remembering nothing but darkness or snippets of images that don't make any sense. I am one of those people. Though… I fear I truly don't dream, in fact, I can't ever remember dreaming anything. Like the "some"-dreamers I remember snippets of images only I know they aren't from any dream. I remember bits of my childhood when dreams were to be some giant enormous things. Random images, thoughts, moments. Only one thing can I remember clearly and it is the only thing I wish to forget.
From what my older siblings tell me the fights had started well before I was born, which was probably true, but I know they were never as severe as the fights from after I entered this existence. The battles escalated in the years after my younger brothers were born and the elder two were entering junior high. Hormones were introduced with a dash of dirty dippers, a pinch of financial loss, stirred together by secondary family problems to create my adolescent and young adult years. It is in this time period were dreams and nightmares clashed and mingled, churning young minds till they spilled and fell like a bowl overflowing with batter. It is in this time when we realize how many steps we have left till the rest of our lives and how small dreams really are.
My mother had been beautiful when she was my age. Shining green eyes, long red hair, full, skinny, figure, skin that was soft not just in touch but tone as well. Yes, everything about my mother was beautiful. Even the freckles that sprinkled over her skin were beautiful. It wasn't just her appearance that she had going for her,but she had a great mind too. She had a promising brilliance. Now, as you look at her you see a middle aged, over weight woman with creases along her brow and wrinkles forming on her pale face. Her hair is still long and red, but it's lost it's youthful sheen. Her mind is still brilliant but its troubled, stretched and twisted with stress and painful memories and regrets. Her shining green eyes are dull with age and dart around like a mouse waiting for the snake to attack. That's what made her dangerous. She was a paranoid, emotionally unstable woman but with a genius mind and quick wit. A mad genius. At the time I didn't know what had happen to her to cause such a drastic change from the smiling, beautiful teenager with high goals (and the means to reach them) I'd seen in pictures to the miserable, unstable 45 year old Hotel desk clerk/ maid.
Despite any faults she had then and now my father married her and they remain married. My father is the exact opposite of my mother. Laidback and lazy, hehad been best friends with my mother in high school and a stud by that decades standards. Long dark, curly hair, laughing blue eyes, thick beard and mustache. Tall, dark, handsome. Over 30 years later his hair is short, but stilldark and curly though always covered by a hat, his eyes look old as all eyes become after so many years but they still chuckle at you. His beard and mustache are still thick but among the dark bush, Aging's white weeds have begun to grow. My father had been an athlete in high school, basketball in particular, till he shattered some bones in his leg that have left him with an obvious limp. In collage my dad had gotten a degree in psychology. A degree that has nothing to do with his job as a DNR Matenance Supervisor. My parents are complete opposites yet their differences seem to balance one another, like ying and yang. Only Ying is threatening to divorce Yang. To say my parents had a less than perfect marrage would be a ridiculous understatement.
Fights were frequent, daily. In fact it's when they weren't fighting that I knew something was wrong. Mostly verbal, they usually started when my mother's stress level reached it's max. I woke to these fights every morning for the 18 years that I lived with my family. I'd lay there in my bed staring at my ceiling listening to them argue with indifference. It was the only way I'd learned to react to their fueds. By not reacting, at least not right away, I'd learned to survive my parents.
"Eliane! Get your ass out of bed and get dressed! You've got 15 minutes!" Was my mother's signal to get ready for school. She'd continue to scream at my younger brothers to "move their lazy asses" before she moved them herself. It would take me 5 minutes to get ready for school. Unlike most girls my age I didn't wear make-up of any kind so that was a good half hour saved there. To this day Lip gloss is as far as I ever willingly go. My wardrobe was, is, and will always be simple, year round. Comfortably jeans, comfy t-shirt (usually black) with a hoody or flannel in case it got cold. My hair which is a whisper of my father's, had once been long enough to sit on. Upon entering high school I cut it. The small of my back is as far as it will ever reached now. I had a habit of wearing a bandana over my head, which my mother hated, and I had1 pair of piercings on my ears. I had a stigmatism so I wore thick oval shaped glasses that hindered the image of my eyes, a poor imitation of my mothers once shining ones. I preferred my glasses over my irritating contacts anyway. After dressing I'd head into the bathroom, open one mirrored door on the medicine cabinet, and stand on the toilet to check myself over in the mirror. I'm not as pretty as my mother had been. I'm chubbier than most girls in this day and age, with too-wide hips andround baby face. My freckles are pale and few yet dark enough to make me look awkward. Needless to say the three words to describe me at this agewere plain, average, and awkward. When I appeared in the kitchen I would get the standard response from my mother.
"Are going to turn in your missing assignments today or do I have to call the school to find out what their going to do about your irresponsibility?"
"I'll take care of it Mom." I wasn't exactly doing great in school, though, in my defense, it wasn't because I was irresponsible. Hopefully by the time I'm done telling this story you'll understand what I mean.
"You're just like your sister. You've got one more year after this one before you graduate. That's assuming you make it that far. I can't believe after seeing everything your brother and sister did your still going to fuck up. You think any collage will want you?" I remain silent at this point. My older siblings had screwed up badly in high school. Drugs, drinking, failing grades. They'd rolled down the hill and hit bottom and when the looked back up they'd found that the hill was far too steep to walk up. They climbed and climbed and are still climbing, though the hill isn't as steep now. They'd found their way into collage by the time I was a teenager in every sense of the word.
"You're your father's daughter," my mom would continue. "He couldn't even finish this damn house! Its no surprise that you can't even finish high school. Same laziness, same stupidity, same genes." If I said her words had no effect on me what-so-ever, I'd be lying. Every time we ever spoke no matter what subject we started out on the conversation went to this one. The same subjects. The same pattern. It became so predictable I actually found ways to avoid the subject sometimes. My mom would start with my school work, compare me to my older siblings, pick at the aspects of my life she hated (friends, habits, interests, wardrobe), then she'd talk about how she should have known I turn out as useless and pathetic as my father, her finale was when she'd scream about how ungrateful I was, how much she hated me, how spoiled and bratty I was, how I could such terrible things to her, how I could be so mean, so horrible. I suspected that when she reached this part of the pattern it was no longer me she was yelling at, but some nameless ghost from her past that appeared to her, that haunted her mind.
After a frustrating morning, I'd head off to school. If I was lucky I'd be able to hitch a ride from my dad when he left for work and seven-fifteen. First period started at eight-fifteen. I'd be early but I wouldn't be home. I jumped at every chance to leave my house. If that meant enduring the halls of my high school then so be it. At least at school I had my friends to fall back on. It's here, at school, where I will specify my story.
In one moment a life can be changed, for better or worse.
A/N: Soooooo. Waja Think?