Chapter One

1999

   I was never one to care whether I lived in the moment or not. I prided myself on remembering names, places I have seen in books, faces I came across on the street; it was all I had. I used to carry a journal. I had filled it to the brim of photos I had taken with my father's old Polaroid camera, random words I would see on half-decayed billboards, little notes to an imaginary boyfriend that I was sure I was going to meet any second now. The journal carried more love and devotion that I had ever experienced in every day life. People, on the outside, were cruel. They walked by each other in the street without so much as a “hello,” or “good morning.” That was how life was: a world full of strangers walking past without a care as to what happens to those they brush shoulders with every single day. Not in that journal though. That book, filled with odd little memories, was my salvation.

   The year was 1999. I was in the middle of my family's living room, surrounded by a bunch of snot-nosed brats celebrating my 10th birthday. I was always older for my age, so the typical cake, ice cream, presents and pin the tail on the donkey was boring me senseless, but I pretended to be happy for her. My mom. She always thought I was an abnormal child and I was never one to fight her on that fact. I liked to learn. I liked literature; books were my favourite things in the world. I loved to people watch instead of jump rope or play hopscotch with the other school kids. One can learn a lot about people just by watching them live their daily lives. But I digress. There I was, in the middle of the living room surrounded by brats with cake on their faces when it was time to open presents. I got the usual kid stuff. Toys that I would never touch, socks from grandma, a new outfit from mom and dad. I liked the clothes better than the toys. Then, my grandfather's present.

   My grand dad was the only one in my family who supported me emotionally. He always used to say that I got most of my “unique persona,” from him. He bought me my first novel when I was 4. “Gone with the Wind,” still sat on my book case; first among hundreds. He introduced me to the greats: Shakespeare and Edgar Allan Poe. To this day, I can't read “Hamlet,” without hearing my grand dad's voice. So, when I saw his present, I knew I was in for something special.

   I reached over and grabbed his present, wrapped in newspaper and held together by scotch tape. Grand dad always made sure I knew what present was his, and I always saved his for last. I carefully peeled off the tape; careful not to rip too much of the newspaper. I knew that there would be a story on the page that I could read later. Inside, bound in black leather with gold tipped corners and my name scrolled on a gold plaque on the front; was my very first journal. It was the most beautiful book I had ever seen, and it was mine. The plaque proved it to be so.

   “Thank you, grand dad!” I stood up and flung myself at him as he sat in the nearby wing-back. His chair was the only one in the house that was older than my mom, but it was his and no one had the heart to make him part with it. The chair was as much a part of him as his skin was. He caught me in his arms and hugged me like I was about to drift away, engulfing me in a mixture of aftershave and cigars.

   “You're welcome, little bird,” he said with a smile on his lips. He always called me his little bird, as my name is Raven, and my hair and eyes matched those of my namesake. “I'm glad you like it. Whatever you write will be for your eyes only, until you wish to share it with the world.”

   I dropped from his lap and went back to my table of brats, holding my new treasure in my lap. The book felt cool and slick under my hands; the leather rippling under my fingers as I stroked the cover lovingly. I half paid attention after that, and just sat there waiting until I could escape up to my bedroom and get started on writing in my journal. The kids went home after what felt like hours, and I bounded up the stairs, two at a time, and locked myself away in the only place I felt like I was home.

   My bedroom was my sanctuary. My grand dad and father had made me my own mini library that covered the far wall. The floor to ceiling shelving unit was stuffed to the brim with books; ranging from old classics to goosebump books. My bed, a cherrywood canopy, was draped in red and black curtains and had bedding to match. I wanted it to look like the bed I envisioned in Edgar Allan Poe's “Tell-Tale Heart,” I just wish the curtains were made of satin instead of cotton. My walls were painted a maroon red, something that my mother despised. My grand dad helped me talk her into the colour, stating that the darkness would help me sleep at night. My window, right across from my door, let in the only source of light. I usually kept the drapes open so the breeze could swoop in and fill the room with the scents of the seasons. At that moment, wild flowers and rain were what filled my nose as I made a running leap and landed in the middle of the bed.

   I reached over to my bedside table, made out of the same cherrywood as my bed, and pulled out a pencil. I knew that my very first entry was going to be about that day; the day I was given my piece of salvation.