Changeling

Chapter 1

A/N- As I continue to write this story I routinely go back to previous chapters and edit.  If you are re-reading this recently updated chapter I appreciate you taking the time. If you are a new reader, thank you too! I encourage you to leave comments. Tell me what you like, or what you hate or point out errors even! If you enjoy what you read please click that star at the end of the chapter! 

Calliope Galpin. That was my name. But who was Calliope Galpin? Most people knew who they were, or at least had a general sense of who they were, by the age of eighteen... but I didn't. Identity is complex, no doubt. One's identity is formed out of a network of tangible things, like physical characteristics, but also things much more abstract and invisible to the outside world. Most people used the physical characteristics or the knowledge of visible activities, actions or friend and family groups to govern how they identified others. So therefore, I was the girl with the strange eyes; the foster kid; the crazy girl; and more recently the criminal. Though I had come to believe it was the things people didn't see that were more important— memories, feelings, and thoughts culminated to form one's identity. Of course, culture, ethnicity and religion were also primary influences. Yet, what I observed over the course of my young lifetime was that love was fundamental to providing the structure of identity. Love means acceptance, it means patience and faith. As children, being loved is what legitimizes us. It is where we find an understanding of our individuality and how we fit into the tapestry of our world. I didn't fit into this world. I was loved once... a long time ago. Too long ago for me to remember. Too long ago for it to matter...

I hated the clock. I hated how it glared down at me, how it mocked me, how it reminded me every minute of every hour of every day that I was stuck in this place and that it was by my own doing.

Three fifteen AM. The red block numbers sent a silent shout through the small plexiglass window of my cell door. I had the luck of having the cell whose window perfectly aligned with the wretched thing that hung near the ceiling in the day room. As the only one who could see it from my cell, I became the official timekeeper of House Four. A duty whose honors included answering constant strings of questions about when things would happen- How long until the next guard walk through? When's the meal cart coming? How much time until transport arrives? That would be transport to court, which occurred at five AM sharp every Monday through Friday.

It was supposed to be my inaugural summer as an adult. I should have been sitting on the beach working on my tan. I should have been searching through the fall catalog of freshman courses at the junior college. I should have been looking for a part time job. Instead, I convinced myself this was where I needed to be. I was so damn wrong.

I rolled over on my rack, turning my face away from the clock to find a comfortable position to sleep then laughed at myself. Comfort was not what this cell was designed to provide. My three-inch thick mattress rested on a legless steel frame bolted to the wall. The rest of my six foot by eight-foot space was empty except for the toilet along the back wall and a sink with a rusted faucet that had a continual drip. During the day it was too noisy to hear the dripping, but at night it made me want to beat my head against the wall. I was convinced it was some sort of water boarding technique.

I gripped the jail issued coarse blanket from my bed and pulled it around myself. It made my skin itch, but the cell was cold urging me to ignore how the synthetic fabric made me want to scratch every inch of my body. I gathered it around my head to block out the torturous sound and as I shifted, my hip found the spot in the mattress that lacked padding and pressed painfully into the steel beneath it. I made one more futile attempt to find a better position. There was only fifteen minutes left to try and sleep before the food cart arrived and I could already hear the other guests of this grand resort waking and shuffling around in their cells. Breakfast was served early, at three thirty AM every morning, so those who had appointments with the judge could make it to court on time. Food, shower, chains, and transport. That was the morning routine.