For the beginning of this story, I, Caelyn Montegomery, will narrate. This section will delve deeply into the heart of why I am the person you see before you today. After this we will turn to a third person omniscient point of view and all will be right with the world. So don’t worry, get through this hard part and it will pay off in the end, I promise. Otherwise, my good friend, the true narrator will gladly bake some freaking awesome cookies for you. :smile:

On forth! We shall embark on this journey.

I keep having these dreams, these wonderful, beautiful, fleetingly blissful, momentous dreams. When I wake up, and I am stuck in that in-between phase where you are neither awake nor asleep; I squeeze my eyes closer shut and pray that I can return to the dream. Just so that I can get one more little glimpse of the other life I once had. The life I so dearly wish I could be living right now.

Last night was the most vivid, and unfortunately the only dream I did not wish to visit.

I was a little girl again, eight years old, a lovely, innocent age, where the world seemed full of infinite possibilities. It was my first dance rehearsal; my Mom and Dad were in the audience. I was backstage getting ready. They had just left me minutes ago, with a big hug and a kiss and a wish for me to break a leg. Not literally, of course.

My teacher had such hopes for my talent. I was nimble, graceful, and a quick learner, or at least that’s what they kept telling me. I was eight though, very little about that meant much to me. All that mattered tonight was that I was going to go on that stage and dance my little heart out, make my mommy and daddy proud. Of course, I could have been the worst in the class and they would’ve been proud. They loved me.

My beautiful tutu was brand new. I was very fond of it. It looked like it had been snatched out of a Degas painting. I was so excited, convinced I was going to to take the show and blow the audience away with my beautiful dancing. Even if I had a few butterflies in my stomach, nothing was going to bring me down. I was on cloud nine, the prettiest ballerina anyone ever did have the fortune to see.

Well that was what I was thinking until I noticed that I had lost my ballet slippers. I couldn’t perform without my shoes. I was frantically searching for those little shoes that meant life or death in my little childish mind. I thought my world had just ended. What I didn’t know was that I had left them on the kitchen counter at home. I was so excited, that I had carelessly left without one of my most important props to perform. I would never find them backstage, no matter how much I looked, that night.

My mom, however, realized this dilemma as soon as she sat down in her seat in the audience. She hurriedly dragged my father to the car to drive and get my shoes. There was no time to tell me that they were leaving and where they were going, there was only time to dash and retrieve the tiny, extremely important shoes.

In my own frantic search backstage, I ran across a little practice room that I had never noticed before. There was a girl about my age, much better than I, practicing in the room. For a second I wondered why she was not performing tonight, without a doubt she was definitely skilled enough to be in the show.

When she noticed me, she looked down at my feet and asked, “Where are your slippers? You’re in the show, are you not? Shouldn’t you be going on soon?”

I replied that yes, I should be performing very soon but I couldn’t, since I seemingly had lost my slippers.

“Well then.” She replied, “The show must go on. You are my size, take mine and go perform!” As she said that she handed me worn, scuffed, dirty shoes that were definitely not as beautiful as my performance slippers that had matched my outfit. But they fit beautifully, and they were the most comfortable I had ever worn. At that point in time I was not one to complain about the condition these shoes were in. Frankly, I didn’t think twice and jumped at the chance. The show would go on and I would make my parents proud, because as far as I knew my parents were still in the audience, waiting patiently for the show, clueless of my dilemma.

I thanked the little girl profusely, but stopped a moment in thought. I asked her how come she was not performing.

She answered, “I do not like people watching me dance. It’s a private thing for me. My older sister used to be a prodigy but gave it up because of bad memories. I dance in her place, I dance to make up for those lost memories. I don’t need people watching me. The knowledge that I do it is more than enough for me. So you go on, dance tonight, dance your hardest, put your whole heart into it. Let the people in the audience forget their lives for a few moments. That is all I ask in return for giving you my ballet slippers.”

I smiled, thanked her, and promised I would give it my all. I left the room and never saw that girl again. But that night I danced with all my heart and soul. At the end I received a standing ovation. As far as I was concerned it was the best performance of my life.

And the last.

As I was twirling around in my beautiful tutu and worn borrowed slippers, my parents were hit head-on by a drunk driver. They never saw me perform, they never even made it home to get the slippers.

The officers who told me everything tried to make me feel better by telling me that they were killed instantly, they never felt a thing. But to my little brain that meant nothing to me. I didn’t understand anything. I didn’t understand at all what it was I did to deserve this. To my eight year old mind, it was all my fault. If I hadn't forgotten them, then my family would still be here with me...

Later on I learned that my mother was pregnant with my baby sister. She died too, of course. I was alone in the world, all because I was brainless enough to forget my stupid shoes. This was all my fault, that was all I could think about growing up. If I hadn’t forgotten my shoes then they never would have left and been hit by a drunk driver. I never thought it could be the drunk driver’s fault. That never crossed my mind, because all I could understand was that they left because of me and now they are both gone from my life forever, including my baby sister, whom I never even got the chance to meet. She never got to grace this world with her presence.

I like to believe that after my performance, if all had gone right, my parents would have come up to me and congratulated me. They would have told me that I was the best ballerina there ever was. Of course, that would have been a gross exaggeration. I was not the best ballerina there ever was, but in their eyes I would have been. Then we would have gone to a celebratory dinner and my mom would have told us about the little girl we were going to have in our lives very soon. And in celebration we would have split a dessert and laughed and been merry.

Unfortunately, no matter how much I dreamed about what might have happened, it never would be true. No matter how much I tried to close my eyes tighter, I would eventually have to wake up and face reality. So began my life as a dreamer.

Child service packed me up and sent me to a rich Uncle I never knew existed. Apparently he was my mother’s little brother, whom she neglected to inform me about. I also never knew until then that my mother was from old money and she was disowned when she married my father because she did not marry into money, as was expected of her. She chose love over a fortunate and a dysfunctional family. I don’t blame her.

Well this uncle lived in England, they said, in a very pretty house. I was told that he was going to take very good care of me. They lied. I never saw the uncle and I never saw that so-called “pretty house”. He wanted nothing to do with his little niece, just as he had wanted nothing to do with his disowned sister.

The first thing he did when he found out that he was now in charge of this little 8-year-old girl was to ship me off to a boarding school. He was not to have anything to do with me, other than reluctantly pay for the things I needed. Whenever I needed something, I would call his secretary and she would tell him to wire me the money. She was a very sweet old lady and always took interest in my life and sent me delicious baked goods that always made my day when I got them. She felt sorry for the little orphan child who was shipped away from her last living relative. But at least she was nice about it, I suppose.

My uncle was a 30-year-old bachelor that didn’t want to dirty his hand with caring for a child he never wanted in the first place. He wasn’t good with kids, apparently. I’m sure that’s what he told himself to justify his lack of attention and cold hearted attitude. No one is good with kids in the beginning; it’s a trial and error type deal. He just didn’t want to have to think about something that wasn’t supposed to be his problem in the first place.

Well needless to say, I was a very sad child, within reason I like to believe. I cried every night for the first year before I realized that I should move on. Crying wasn’t going to bring my family back. Nothing was going to bring them back. I was just feeling sorry for myself and being selfish. So I woke up one morning a changed girl, I decided to live a life my parents would be proud of.

Boarding school was really rough at first, being the new kid never really works out well in the beginning; it didn’t help that I was shy and grieving. No one wanted to be friends with the new girl who never spoke and always looked as if she had been crying. Essentially I was invisible for the first year. But then once I got over myself it was as if I was a completely different person. Now I was living for my parents, I was back to my quirky self and seemingly carefree ways. I made friends easily then. People began to forget that pitiful little girl. However, there was always a part of me that was shut down, something that kept me from getting super close to people. I had tons of friends, some closer than others. But none knew of my past. No one would ever know if I have it in my power. I didn’t want people to pity the orphan girl, I deserved more in life than pity.

My friends were always inviting me to their homes on vacations. This was a school for the rich; one extra person on the holidays meant nothing to them. I always declined their invitations though. Things would become a bit suspicious if every vacation or holiday I was constantly leaving with someone else’s family for vacation. That and parents are notorious for asking tons of questions. Parents always want to know about who their children are coercing with in school, obviously with good intentions.

So every vacation and holiday I say goodbye to my friends and act like I’m leaving the school like them, but I stay. There is a caretaker who lives on the outskirts of the grounds. He lives with his wife who is also the school chef. They take care of me. My neglectful uncle paid extra to the school and the caretaker for them to keep after me. It’s so convenient to have money, isn’t it?

I sort of became a surrogate child to that nice couple. They couldn’t have kids of their own, so they took care of me. They knew I am an orphan. A few adults knew. The principal, some teachers, etc.; the important people knew. It is some sort of unspoken agreement that if I wanted a student to know about my circumstances, then I would tell them. I never tell though. I don’t need to see the looks of pity on the faces of my peers that I see on my teachers faces.

Eventually I began to love those holidays. They were a time where I got some alone time. The school was this ancient building with many different nooks and crannies. It was quite obvious that the previous owner was really into secrecy and stealth. By the third year, I knew that school like the back of my hand. I could get anywhere unnoticed, and I loved it. I could sneak into the kitchens, or the library, or secret rooms without anyone knowing how I got there. I never shared my secrets. If I did, they would get around the school and they would no longer be secrets. Teachers would close up my passageways and hidey holes. No way was I going to spill.

Around the time that I turned eleven, I stumbled across a room that I had never seen before. It was hidden very well, although I honestly don’t know why. It was just a common dance practice room. Wood flooring with one full wall lined with mirrors. The adjacent wall lined with practice bars. It was in the basement of the school. The ceilings were higher than the other ceilings in the school. Up above were tiny little windows shrouded in dust and grime. Immediately I loved it. Even though it was screamingly obvious that it was what one would call a “fixer-upper”. To say the least.

So that is what I did. I fixed it up. All on my own. I polished the floors. Cleaned the mirrors. Repainted the walls (believe me they needed a fresh coat of paint…) I left the windows up above alone though. I did not want anyone getting suspicious of what I was doing in there. Originally I had absolutely no intentions of using the room for anything other than a hideaway. It actually seemed like that was what the room had originally been used for. It seemed like a room that was made to be hidden for an individual, quite like me, who enjoyed their privacy. So I went into the school’s attics where they store all the extra junk lying around and then proceeded to forget about. I “borrowed” a desk, chair, book case, and a bed. No one would miss them. I dragged them all down to my hideaway on my own. I personalized the room with pictures and little things I got from my friends. It looked kind of like my home away from home. Except this school would always be my home.

My original intentions were to just use the room as an escape when school and people became too much. But I would catch myself staring at the practice bars. I felt drawn to them almost. I could not deny my passion, no matter how much I hated it for what it did to my life. But I also knew that by ignoring my talent my parents died in vain. They had been trying to do their best for me, to make my life special and they received nothing from it but death by a drunk driver. Lucky them.

Eventually, after weeks of incessant fretting about my predicament, I decided that I would do what the little girl with the ballet slippers said she did. I would keep up the ballet. Privately and for myself only. In remembrance of my parents. No one should ever know. It would be my little secret. It quickly seemed as if soon my life would be nothing but secrets, and oddly I was okay with that. I enjoyed my privacy.

In the beginning it was very difficult. The first day, I cried putting on my shoes and could not stop. That was as far as I got. It slowly became easier. I slowly came to terms with the deaths. Growing up, I maintained a dancers’ body. Everyone just assumed that I was one of the lucky few with a perfect little body. Especially since I ate everything in sight. What can I say? I have a fast metabolism? Heh heh…

As the years proceeded, I matured faster than my peers but once I came to terms with the deaths, my lively countenance returned and I soon got along with everyone. Well almost everyone. But we’ll talk about that later…

I made first period my prep period. It was hard waking up early to work out. It took a lot of effort to drag myself out of bed early in the mornings. It could have been so much easier to sleep in, but at this stage of my life if I didn’t do my morning work out I was groggy and grumpy all day.

I began working for the school when I was old enough to do office work on the side. They paid well, and knew my circumstances so they did not complain. Slowly I became less dependent on my stupid uncle. I learned how to sew and made my own clothes. Luckily they were chic enough that the other kids did not find them poor or tacky or tease me for them. They found them creative and cool. Sometimes I would design something for a classmate for a small price, it became a lucrative business and I no longer needed to work in the office. Although I would sometimes do them favors in a gesture of appreciation for their kindness.

So it’s been 10 years after that tragic night. I am 18 now, a senior in high school. I have to say I believe that I have managed well considering the circumstances. The teachers no longer look at me with pity. The students seem to have forgotten the little girl who always cried. Well, sort of... Sometimes she was talked about in a “What ever happened to that one girl?” sort of way. They never really linked me to her. Everyone forgot my transformation and I will never correct them otherwise. I have become content with my life. At times it’s been lonely but it has been the path I have chosen. I'd rather keep everyone away from that part of my life. There have been times when I have had the urge to spill to someone. But that fear of the looks of pity kept me from telling. I just didn’t want to see them again. It’s too much to handle. Being a little lonely is better than those looks.

And so now we end this stream of consciousness back story and get on with the real story…