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Chapter One
The girl was not unattractive; indeed, it was quite the opposite. However, there seemed to be something odd about her. Her eyes, for instance, were very tired, and held a constant emotion...was it distress? And her features were gaunt, almost as though most happiness had been lured out of her. Adorned on her back were transparent, pink butterfly wings; they, too, seemed to have had the life drawn from them. The wings lay limp on her back.
A voice called out a strange word; she reacted to it. It was her name, yet not the one given to her by birth. She had later renamed herself “Songtamer”, as that was her nature.
The voice called out again, and the girl sighed. A hand reached towards the face; alarmingly, it seemed to scoop some part of the face up. Quickly, though, it was revealed to be a reflection in a pond. The hand slapped at the water as though to say who cares; it’s just looks.
And, oddly enough, those words were spoken, although her lips did not move. She stood upright from her kneeling position, forlornness streaming into her. She looked out at the castle that rose up mightily, reflected grandly in the water she had just knelt by. She wiped away a tear and headed towards the castle.
OoO
I woke up to my father shaking my shoulder. I jolted upright, staring at the clock. 6:30?! How could it have gotten that late?!
Quickly, I heaved myself out of bed, grabbing a solid red long-sleeved shirt from my dresser and a pair of faded blue jeans from my closet. I stumbled into the bathroom, still half-asleep, the light temporarily blinding me. Without waiting for my eyes to adjust, I changed from my pajamas, thinking confusedly. I always woke up easily, despite how many hours of sleep I had – or had not – gained. My usual waking up time was 6:05 am. What had happened this time?
As much as I did not want to think it, I knew it was due to that weird dream I had had. My dreams were usually strange, but I had never had a series of dreams. This gaunt, young woman had appeared several times over the past few months; it was like tuning into a television show without knowing what was going on, and without waiting for it to finish, and merely watching the middle.
But the scariest part was that I knew this woman. She was no stranger to me. Her voice, her face, her existence – it was mine. Yes, her hair was styled different, and her face was much thinner. She was probably seven years my senior. Also, there was something ever constant, some odd emotion hanging over her….She was grieving. But for what?
After I quickly changed my clothes, I grabbed my sweater, which had my school name across it and my school’s symbol, a paw print, splashed on the back, and pulled it on. After spending a few frustrating moments inserting my contact lenses – I had abandoned glasses long ago – I hurried from the bathroom and up the stairs.
I live in a condominium with my parents and older sister, Lauren, who’s seventeen-years-old and a junior in high school. I’m fifteen, and a freshman. We’ve lived in this condo in the heart of downtown Boston for almost a dozen years, and it’s where I’ve built my memories and evolved as my own human being. It’s an “upside-down house”, as Lauren calls it: the bedrooms are on the bottom floor, which is really like the basement, and the living room, kitchen, family room, and dining room are on the second floor, which is more like the first floor, because it’s the one you enter into. When one enters, there’s just a small foyer, and then a grand room that encompasses the kitchen, dining room, and living room; if you hook a right from the foyer, you go into the family room. It contains all of the family’s high-tech gadgets: a wide-screen television, a surround-sound system, an elliptical trainer, and a Nintendo Wii. It’s actually quite convenient to have a dad who loves electronic knickknacks, because he’s also enthusiastic about the game systems, as am I.
I stumbled up the stairs and slid onto a stool at the granite kitchen counter. My dad placed a cup of coffee in front of me, which I instantly downed: it was half a cup of coffee, half a cup of milk, and no sugar. I could never have it otherwise, unless it was iced coffee. Sometimes, things just have to stay constant, as so many things weren’t these days.
The dreams, though. They were still bothering me. I could not get that woman’s face out of my mind. That was another thing that bugged me, too – I kept on thinking of her as a separate entity. The mind’s a funny thing, especially the sleeping mind: if one has a dream, there could be a total physical misrepresentation of a certain person, but mentally, one would understand who it was. I had never thought of that woman as “me”. It was always “her” and, recently, “Songtamer”.
‘Songtamer?’ I thought as the car hummed along on the winding Boston streets, bumping slightly. ‘What kind of name is that?’ I have to admit, though, I rather liked it. It had an interesting ring to it.
I reached my school at around seven-thirty, and rushed inside. I ran up the three exhausting flights of stairs and made it to my locker, out of breath and with a headache already forming. I dialed in the combination for my lock and opened it; what did I have first? In our insane six-day rotation, it was always discombobulating on a Monday morning. Let’s see…Day Four. Spanish II, Study, English, and Algebra II. The only class that I liked during the first four periods was English. Fun, fun, fun.
When I had grabbed all the essential items for those classes from my locker, I went into my homeroom. The teacher beckoned to me and handed me a slip of blue paper. I inwardly groaned as I took it and headed to my seat: it was a guidance pass. I folded it in half and slipped it into my pocket.
Every once in a while, the guidance counselor will call you into their office during a study, usually if your grades are really bad. This was the first time I had been called to Guidance this school year, and I knew why. However, I didn’t want to talk about my “problems” to my guidance counselor. I hadn’t even told my closest friends.
Finally, when second period rolled around and I was supposed to go to Study, I went to the room, showed the Guidance pass to the study teacher – some man who taught reach-back Algebra I –, and trudged to the Guidance offices. I took my messenger bag with me, not only because I knew it would be a long wait, but if I wanted help – which I most certainly did, but not from a stranger – I would have to show her something.
I’m not afraid of Guidance counselors, nor do I resent them. Quite contrary to that: I emulate them. My future dream profession – asides from being an author – is to be a school guidance counselor. I like to joke and say I’d be a starship’s counselor, but, alas, humanity’s not at that point yet. But the reason I dislike talking to counselors is because I don’t need to. It’s a waste of their time and mine if I know how to cope with whatever I’m going through. I’ve got a handle on my emotions, and I tend to stay away from high school drama. I mean, I don’t need to talk about my feelings if I know how to handle them.
That’s what I thought, at least: long ago, it seems, even though this all happened only three years ago. And now, I write down my encounters in hope of preserving my precious memories forever.
As I suspected, there was a wait in the Guidance office. My counselor – a kindly Asian woman in her forties – was talking to one student. From what I could tell, the student was a sobbing seventh grader who had failed her first ever test. There was another student waiting, a boy with longish brown hair, who I did not know. He looked up and acknowledged me with a smile when I entered, and I forced a smile back. Other than that, we did not exchange any sort of interactions.
The period slowly dwindled away. When there was close to only fifteen minutes left, I was called into the office. I stood up from the chair I had been waiting in and strode into the office, trying to sum up my courage. I needed to talk to her, despite my lack of desire to.
I sat down in the hard, plastic chair that faced her, behind her desk, one hand casually holding the mouse of the computer that sat on her desk, humming away. It was an old computer, probably from the late 1990’s; I wondered vaguely how slow it was compared to modern day ones. The window behind her displayed a chilly day, in the 50’s – usual weather for late May in Boston.
“Is anything wrong with you?” she asked immediately, not waiting for any preamble. Her voice was soft and delicate, as though afraid of being overheard. The doors were closed, though, and nobody really cared about listening into the ramblings of a teenager.
I shrugged. I didn’t want to say “yes”, but saying “no” would be a flat out lie. She clicked a few buttons on her computer, and I could see the glow of the screen changing to a green color, tinting her face.
“Your grades have dropped significantly,” she told me, reading from the screen. “You failed Latin fourth term, and you got a B- in English.” She turned her concerned, kindly face back to me. “Every other term you got A’s in English. What happened?”
I shrugged again, but she didn’t buy it. She peered at me intently, and I sighed, looking away from her and gazing at the tree outside of her window. Tiny blossoms were beginning to emerge.
“I’ve been having weird dreams,” I mumbled, feeling foolish. “They’ve been interfering with my schoolwork.”
“What are these dreams about?” she asked. I knew what was coming next: I was going to get psychoanalyzed. Trust me, I’ve done that to myself several times, but it’s hard to use myself as a practice patient if I’m certain that I’m almost completely mentally stable. Sure, I’m a bit eccentric, but any amateur can see that.
But this was my cue. I reached into my messenger bag and pulled out a small, hard, light blue notebook. I flipped through mindless pages, dating all the way back to 2003, and found a page in late 2006. Tentatively, I began to read, feeling a bit awkward about divulging my dark secrets:
“‘November 23rd, 2006. 3:21 am. I just woke up and, for the first time this month (probably), I had a dream. It wasn’t all that special, really, but it was kinda eerie. I was just walking around in this grassy area, with lots of trees and a big pond. It was nice, I guess; calming. Even though I liked it, some part of me felt a terrible sadness. I don’t know why. Maybe there was some part of the dream that occurred that was mad depressing that I don’t remember’.” I flipped the page over. “‘November 25th, 2006. 9:19 am. Same type of dream from two nights ago. It was so weird – I wrote that ‘I’ was walking around, but I don’t think it was me. It was like I was watching life from someone else’s eyes. Isn’t that creepy? I could see a castle in the background, and it felt familiar, despite never having seen it before.’
“‘November 26th, 2006. 10:54 am. Okay. Me remembering dreams is weird enough as is, but to be having a series? I’m beginning to question my own sanity here. It was the same as before, but I met this one woman. She’s short and blonde, and acts motherly towards me – her – whoever I am, that is’.” I looked up at my Guidance counselor. “So? Do you get it?” She gave me a quizzical look, and I could feel the cynical sarcasm coming out. “Yeah. Neither do I.” I flipped towards the back of the book, where I had drawn three pictures. They were all labeled with names.
The first picture was of a petite, willowy woman with long, wavy blonde hair and round, childlike blue eyes. She was wearing a loose, long-sleeved shirt and a long skirt, with thick boots poking out from beneath the hem. Her mouth was open, as though she was calling someone, but I had not put in any speech bubbles. It would ruin the drawing. The name above hers was Meridi, written in my hasty scrawl.
The second drawing was of a tall woman in a sleeveless dress that hit just below her knees. Her reddish-brown hair was short and spiky, and her brown eyes were alight with a feisty determination. Several times I had witnessed this woman stomping around and losing her temper. Her name was Deanne.
The very last drawing was of the tall attractive brunette, her eyes heavy with grief. She had been the star, the main character of it all: the protagonist of my odd dreamland. Her name, written large and bold, was SONGTAMER. Her hair fell differently than mine – it was longer, and lacked the blonde highlights I had put in. But, other than that, we were alike.
“Is that a drawing of you?” asked the Guidance counselor. I looked up at her with a wry grin.
“Looks like me, yeah?” I replied, almost laughing. “Funny thing is, I showed this to my mom, and she said it looked like her when she was younger, and everyone says I look exactly like my mom.” I grew serious. “It’s not me, though. It’s not my mom, either. It’s Songtamer, just like I wrote here.” I tapped the name with my index finger, leaning forward intently and looking straight into my counselor’s eyes, puzzled but determined to figure out what this was. “She’s the one I am. It’s like I’m looking at a whole different world through her eyes.” I paused for dramatic effect, and then leaned back in my chair, crossing my arms across my chest just as the bell rang. “So. Shall I leave, or do you want to analyze me a bit?”
I know I was being antagonistic, and it was unwarranted. But I didn’t want her to dig deeper into this whole affair. I wanted to figure this out of my own, without any help from others, even though I thought I couldn’t get through it on my own.
“You may go to your next class,” she dismissed. “Do you need me to write you a pass?”
“It’s fine,” I replied coolly, standing up. Before she could say anything else, I shouldered my bag and left the room.
Oh, and by the way, I would very much appreciate it if would point out any spelling mistakes I have made, or any discontinuities in the story. I actually wrote Chapter One while I was working on book four or five of my Miringa & Manumo octet and, even though I've reread it thoroughly, I'm only human (I think oO) and my memory is not the best (cries). Thank you!
