A Journey to Reality

Chapter One

My aunt always told me that once you start to lose interest in the things that you love it means that you are dying.
Until I turned the age of fourteen I believed her.
Until one day a very nervous, lanky male speaker with hairy ears came to our school and taught us that losing interest in the things that you love is a sign of depression. Not dying.
Of course I tried telling my beloved aunt Angelique or Annie as I always called her, this. She was not convinced.
You have to understand, that being raised by a French widow with insane ideas about life and death and an undying love for cucumber sandwiches isn't always easy. Especially when she rambles loudly in French when she can't find her hairbrush on the day of her husband's funeral.
Gerald (Annie's husband) died when I was four of unnatural causes. Still to this day there are rumours of Annie being a cold-blooded murderer which I just ignore. She may be cold and eccentric at times, that doesn't make her an evil psychopath.
Although, I have always been suspicious of her sobbing while bleaching the toilet.
I've always thought those people cruel. It's not everyday that a widower abandons his baby for a muscular marine biologist from Glasgow to be raised by his sister in-law.

As I sprinted home in the rain to attend my aunt's despair, not knowing what the cause of the distressed screaming down the phone was, I couldn't help but think what an asshole my father was for leaving me with this crazy woman whom I adore but is insufferable at times.
I burst through the door shivering as the cold droplets seeped through my clothes to soak my skin and screamed "I SWEAR, YOU BETTER BE DYING!"
For a few moments there was silence in which I thought 'Christ she is dead' until a rapid thumping down the stairs relieved my panic.
My panic was quickly replaced with slight fear as my under slept aunt charged towards me as if she were about to choke me. Instead clutched my shoulders with wild blue eyes and said with the voice of a human with limited oxygen whispered "I've run out of cigarettes."
I had never felt the need to give someone a high-five in the face with a surfing board until this moment.
Thankfully for her sake Morgana (our black cat) exhaled an irritated cry which meant 'give me food' distracted me from the situation that had just taken place.
It seemed that I was going to have to explain to my aunt that a quick stroll to our local supermarket would cure her of nicotine withdrawal.