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As I sit here now, my hands aching from constant rotating and my eyes sore from staring at the bright screen, I find myself wondering how to begin my tale. Should I start when I was born? Where I come from? Who my parents are? All of this is essential to my writing, but what I find my mind wandering to something else, something that I find myself greatly missing.
I was gods gift to parents Mesilla and Ron Denvor, a Filippina mother and a full white Australian father. My father had left Australia for a short period in time, traveling the worlds high lights, until finally landing in Manila, Capital of my heritage. With his mates, his friends from Australia, he had met up with various women, until finally meeting my mother through a friend.
A time was spent, a love produced, and finally the wretched feel of running to the bathroom in early hours of the day and throwing up what dinner and snacks you had the night before. My mother always said to me that I had only ever made her sick once, and her theory was that it was a way to making her notice that I was inside of her. That was almost twenty eight years ago.
I was brought up in a regular sized house, in an average neighbourhood, living a normal life. Australian relatives marveled at my caramel tan, chocolate brown hair and the almond shaped brown eyes which peered up at them. I was to them, an exotic beauty, almost a specimen to gaze upon and tortured with rounds of tickling.
This was all soon taken away from me when my grandmother passed on, and arguments had started over who would be owner of the house. Eventually, it was split between my father and his brother. Arguments were more or less, a large event within my house hold until finally the rights were given to my father, resulting with my Uncle leaving and moving into a unit.
I was too young to realize what all the fuss was about and the only plus I saw was that now the house didn't reek of stale cigarettes and now my Uncle couldn't blame what ever mishap had happened on me.
As I followed through into kindergarten, my education was slow at first. I would find myself sitting in the cooled room around other students, my eyes darting around the room looking at various artworks and pictures. Don't get me wrong, I wasn't dumb, but I held no real interest for the first few years of my education.
The three o'clock bell would ring, parents would enter the room, fetching their children's bags and scooping small hands into their own and finally leaving the room. The hustle and bustle of the finishing day was like a realize to me. I sat in my seat, waiting to see the face of my mother entering the room.
A man, tall, bronzed face and red bandana gazed at me through the doorway, his eyes dark and twinkling. I frowned, finding that there was no one else around me and he must be staring directly in my direction. Looking sillily around me for a source of interest he must have taken, I found nothing and turned my head back towards the door. The man was gone.
Lowering my head and resting it on my small child hands, I began to wonder who was that man? The man who just stared and quirked a small smile. Being the child I was, my mind wandered and I soon focused on the building blocks until my mother came and picked me up.
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