The Story That Chose Me

Prologue

    I grew up listening to stories. My dad always had some sort of tale stirring around in that head of his. Whenever I would visit him I looked forward to hearing them. Marvellous adventures they were, full of magic and hope. Every word he spoke enchanted me, filling my dreams with heroic acts and daring rescues. I clung to every sentance, ever pause and breath he took, held captive by the beautiful scenes playing through my mind. These stories consumed me, their meaning sticking with me far after the last words were uttered. It was then I learned how to dream.

    Oh, and dream I did! From other worlds to fairies, pirates to kings, I doubted nothing. To me, the world was a vast place filled with mysteries to discover and lands to explore. There was nothing I could not do, no bit of magic I could not see. I found amazement in the most simple of things, everything sparlked with light and wonderment. In the gardens I saw miniature people, in the clouds I saw space ships, and nothing was without life in my eyes. 

    There were three ultimate things I believed about the stories: One, they were real, two, everyone had a precise moment when their story would be thrust upon them, and three, they always ended happily. Now, being a girl from a broken family, and full of pain and hurt, I took these things as a promise for a better life. I got a chance to have some sort of grand adventure, that of which was chosen specifically for me, where I could escape this harsh world and all the bad things. I would do something amazing that would initially save the day, and everything would turn out with a happily ever after. The only thing missing was my Moment.

    In all the stories and tales, there's always a specific moment when the hero begins their adventure. Usually they start out with a fairly ordinary life and a desire to have more, and suddenly, out of no where, an opportunity arises for them to go on some sort of fantastical quest. That was the way it always worked. It was as though the story itself was waiting to reveal it's plot until it knew it was the precise right moment for it to do so. This exact moment, this certain point in my life where my story would eventually shout out to me, was what I was waiting for. 

    I had everything else a hero needed. Like the rest of the characters, I had strength and courage, I could see magic in things no one else could, and I had an overwhelming desire to do something more with my life. What more could you have? Therefore, I waited, praying to God every night that tomorrow would be the day I was chosen. I lived in anticipation for that moment, preparing myself in whatever ways I could think of to hasten it's arrival. I believed that nothing could ruin my dreams, and so I waited. Day after day, I waited.

    I grew old waiting. Suddenly I found my childhood had passed me by and I was turning into a teenager. Reality hit me  then, probably around the same time puberty did. The world crashed into me like a thousand lightning bolts, and my life turned dark. The father I had looked up to as my inspiration and proof that the stories existed soon moved far away, content to abandon me for his new family, who were all too happy to see me gone. Somewhere along the way I tried so hard to please everyone else I lost all sense of who I actually was, and suicidal thoughts came to me more than once during a long season of depression. Money also became an issue, soon it was a struggle to simply keep food on the table. My world had become crueler than ever before, and the light I once believed in as a child seemed harder to hold on to.

    Loneliness wracked my world throughout middle school. I found that less and less people understood me. Most of my friends had long ago given up dreaming, and I was the only one who still believed in following your heart. If you are the only one who sees the world differently, everyone else thinks you a madman for it. Therefore, I was shunned by a society who lost sight of what it was like to be a child.

    I still saw magic in the world around me, but that became my curse. It's as if all the forces in the universe joined together to stop my belief in the stories. They constantly pounded at me, leaving me with a broken heart and shattered dreams. Everyone began solving the mysteries and writing equasions for the magic, and soon, everything that once appeared so very wonderful could be explained away by some sort of science. The light in the earth began fading, until eventually, the flame blew out.

    By the time I entered highschool the world became so mundain I lost any sort on interest in it what so ever. I still believed that some sort of adventure could happen, but nothing as grand as I once dared to dream it could. I grew bored, restless even, and living became difficult. I felt like I was trapped in a sick sort of reality, a story gone wrong. In this faulty world, I was forever caged in a haunted house, doomed to live out each day of my life the exact same as the last.

    Try as I might, I could no longer find the magic is the small things, and I felt myself dying inside. Where was the excitement if you were living the same day over and over? Where was the mystery if everything could be explained over again and again? Where was the adventure if everyone else on the planet stopped believing in fairy tales and happily ever afters? I didn't understand what had happened to create such a dark reality, and I found my resolved to keep living in it quickly diminishing. 

    The old stories weren't so easy to believe in anymore. Even the man who had inspired me so very long ago didn't seem to consider them real. Was this my destiny then, my grand adventure? Cursed with knowing the world was lacking something when no one else was there to see it with me?  

    The darkness finally overtook me. That night, after I turned off my lamp and uttered my last prayer of the day, all the light and magic faded out of me. In that moment, I stopped believing in fairy tales, finally surrendering to the suffocating weight of reality. I felt myself die inside.

    Days passed and quickly turned into weeks. Life seemed so much easier when I was going along with the rest of the world, rather than trying to fight against it. I forgot all about my childhood dreams, abandoned along with whatever imagination was left in me. I came to live such as everyone else had. I was swept up in the endless cycle of living and dying that everyone else had always been caught up in. I became trapped in a new sort of cage. 

    Yet the stories did not forget about me as easily as I had forgotten them. They lingered on, ever watching me, waiting until the perfect moment to show up in my face. Rest they did, remaining dormant in the very corner of my heart until the time was right. They waited until I was at the end of myself, when I was so exhausted and worn out from the world I didn't believe I could take another step. It wasn't until my tears had all run dry, and my heart had drained of hope, that they decided to come alive.  

    There, in the dark confusion of my life, where I silently cried to myself and abandoned all thoughts of happier times, my time had come. The endless waiting was finally over, and my adventure found me. 

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