Constellations | A.I.

1 - dreaming

Before you start reading:

I dedicate each chapter to one specific writer who either inspires my writing and/or had written incredible books. This first chapter goes to dimplefeels not only because I'm in love with her work, but because she actually replied to my message when I told her how beautiful her writing truly is. Thank you so much.

-Emilie-

I used to dream a lot.

Used to. Now, every time I close my eyes all I see is an endless black hole. I like to pretend I'm looking into my soul, which I'm sure is just as dark and ominous. It seems like that's all I do these days. Pretend. Because at least it's better than this shitty reality.

But, lately, I have been dreaming. And the first night I did, I woke up shaking, tears threatening to spill, teeth clenched, hands furiously gripping the sheets. Not because of a nightmare. I'm not afraid of those. Because it was a real dream. The happy kind.

I guess it all kind of started when I took the job. I was originally just supposed to be a writer for the local newspaper, which no one even read but it obviously payed money, and I really needed money.

Apparently, I was far better at writing than any of the others at the small office. Some lady with a semi-big last name, for some reason read the newspaper and all it took was one look at my articles and she offered me a job under her book company's name.

I had never aspired to be a novelist, or even an author at all. I didn't really know I had some hidden talent that consisted of writing well enough to be offered a job as a full-time writer. But once I sat down in my little apartment the night after accepting her offer, ideas practically poured out of me, much to my surprise. Instead of making good use out of this fortunate turn of events, I lay there in disbelief that I'd actually been given a great opportunity for once in my life.

Here's another thing: I wasn't depressed. I never was, never will be. But that doesn't mean I don't think the world is a giant asshole that shits on everyone. Good metaphor, I know.

Typically, people get the wrong idea. Only two people have heard me talk about my view of the world which is probably pretty negative and crude in their opinion. But that's their opinion. Their opinion is also that maybe I'm 'clinically depressed', or I'm even 'ungrateful' to some. Everyone is wrong, though.

That's another thing: I was very liked. Not popular. Liked. As in quite a few people liked me, and most of them being the people who saw my fake pretty smile and dashing personality. (Okay, the dashing personality part is actually a real part of me and very much so.) But people seem to think I'm ungrateful because I have such a great life, and yet I have this terrible view on the world.

I used to argue with them and try to explain why I was obviously right about the world being a dicksuck, but then eventually I stopped giving a shit. I would continue to be 'lonely-on-the-inside-but-fine-on-the-outside' me.

My friends had always thought that I felt that way because I was single. I had, of course, had the occasional junior high boyfriend when my preteen body developed into a young teen and had raging hormones, and even the freshmen year boyfriend. Or in other words, I went out with a boy in grade nine (he was in grade ten.) and then ended it after he tried to shove his hand down my pants in the back row of the movie theater to prove to his friends he was a man. Fucking boys.

I was that girl who was super into romance but never actually tried to have my own romance. Nicholas Sparks made me really consider giving guys a chance, but when I actually took a look at the sex-crazed, egotistical boys at my school, I changed my mind.

And because of my sometimes inconvenient hatred towards male specimens, I graduated high school without ever being in one relationship. And once I graduated, I moved to a small town by the name of Willow Creek and didn't tell a soul from my hometown where I'd gone off to. I wanted a clean slate even though I didn't need one.

So there I lived my life unbothered by the people I'd grown up with and developed a tragic and unknown dislike to. The job I accepted was great and all, but I could never decide on a topic or plot I truly liked. Mrs. Winfield, my boss, finally noticed.

"Are you in a rut or something, Emilie? Is it something at home? It's been weeks since I hired you, and I doubt you're not producing anything just because you can't come up with something. I've seen your writing and you're incredibly creative," Mrs. Winfield's tired eyes bored into mine and I had to look away. I wanted to write - I just couldn't.

"I have ideas, it's not that. I'm just not really inspired by much, so I can't seem think out of the box. I don't want to write something mediocre. I want something that's exciting and meaningful, but still relates to me. But that's the problem: nothing has happened in my life that's worth writing about," I explained, leaning back in my seat and sighing.

"You're bored, is it? That's convenient," Mrs. Winfield replied, a sly smile on her lips as I furrowed my eyebrows in confusion, "as I happen to have a plane ticket to Australia that I won't be needing anymore."

"Are you offering it to me?" I gripped the seat anxiously, disbelief etching itself onto my features as she nodded, "Are you sure? Oh my God, that's insane! I've never even been out of state before! Why won't you be needing it, though?"

"I wanted to take a vacation there, but I decided to go visit family in the Hamptons instead. I don't mind you having the ticket if it means finding some inspiration. I'm dying of anticipation waiting for your first work to be done, Emilie!" Mrs. Winfield gave me a smile and I gladly returned it.

And there I was on my way to foreign land two weeks later, much to my ever growing surprise.

-a/n-

I'm so excited for this book, you have no idea what I have planned! Sorry for this sucky first chapter though

xx