We were immortals

Chapter I

"Oh, I'll be damned!" she exclaimed balancing a bunch of books on her head.

With a sudden move, all nine books fell on the floor with a loud thud, making the girl squint.

She reached to the edge of the bed where the small, but practical camera was resting on a tripod to record her video. That's how she had spent the past half an hour or so, trying to balance the books on her head.

Such a funny picture she was. A fair-skinned, raven-haired girl, talking to no one while balancing a huge pile of books on her head. The pile kept growing. At 12 books, (inluding 6 small ones, less than 200 pages, 5 graphic novels and her copy of Les Miserables to top it up, which was pretty much like trying to balance the Empire State building on your head... ) the pile fell again. There were things that needed to be done, (and soon) before she left this place once and for all. She started picking the books up, now laying on the floor in a pile of pages and words more elaborate than the ones she ever aspired to write.

She was already wearing her Victorian style, laced, collar shirt and a black skirt. She put her shoes on, a black canvas bag around her shoulder and before she knew it she was past the high security doors that kept her trapped in her castle.

Princess Morgaine was a pretty little thing, quirky and lonely like most heroines, in her own head. In reality, she was seen as the spoiled, mysterious girl with enough luck to be born and raised in one of the most prestigious families in New York. Many have dreamed of having their riches and class, but no one would even dare think to give everything up. No one but the Snyders' own daughter.

This pretty little thing Morgaine E. Snyder was, had a brain bigger than her parents' mansion and dreams more vast than her family's fortune. With her head over heels for anything creative and artistic, Mor could never agree to take over their parents company, nor their social status.

She hopped off her bike and started walking down the path to the park that lead to her favourite spot between the trees. She could sit there for hours, just staring at the sky, lying on the ground, writing stories and poems or reading. She could never settle down with anything less than at least trying to get a shot at making her dreams come true. And she could do anything.  With her parents' money she could practically have all she wanted, but frankly, she didn't want their money and she definitely didn't want their fame. All she aspired to do was to manage to build a life of her own, not living under the Snyders' shade of fame and sallow-ness.

Under the trees, she started imagining what her new life would be like. She opened her notebook like always and took out her pink fountain pen. This is what she did this time. Write. But not a story, not a poem or a song.

A letter.

"Here we are, I'm sighing right now, that thing you always hated, accompanied by an eye roll, thinking how cheesy, 90s rom-com this whole set up is..." She stopped for a minute to rub her eyes out of pure anxiety.

"...anyways, I'm writing with the fountain pen you bought me for my birthday in year 4 because you said you forgot to buy me a proper present. Who knew my 18 year okd self would still appreciate a hot pink knock-off Parker fountain pen with purple hearts...
But on he other hand who would have known we would end up here, me sitting in the park, with a notebook on my lap and you being literally God knows where, leaving me here with that filthy old pen as last thing that's left of you, to deal with all this mess. Do I really need an object to remind me of you? Aren't the memories enough? The photos or videos?" She wrote with her hand shaking.

"The thing is, you know, those memories I won't probably remember in thirty years, or even in ten. Or maybe I will, but as nothing more than a foggy picture at the back of my head, maybe as something, someone had once narrated to me. When I'll start forgetting your face, when my life will finally be my own and I'm thirty thousand miles away, will I remember the color of your hair and the freckles on your face? Will I smell of fresh baked pancakes and remember the summer days in your grandma's house? Will that remind me of the boy who saved my life?" She let the words slip from her mind to her hand, ink giving her thoughts life on a piece if paper she would probably just tear apart and throw away.