We Were Dreamers

Prologue

Chapter 1

"I always found myself comforting people with the words I wanted to hear."

I remember when I was young and I wanted to be beautiful. Now I'm older and I want to be intelligent. I want to inspire people. To make people happy. But I am merely a shadow, a ghost of my former self and all I have left are my shattered dreams lying like shards of broken glass at my feet.

I tried to stop having suicidal thoughts but the nightmares kept coming to me every night. I used to be afraid of the dark but now I'm only afraid of the silence where there is no one to hide me from my own screaming thoughts. The pain in my heart was too much to bear and there was nothing to distract me from my aching heart. I prayed for death every night before I slept yet I always woke up the next morning with a second chance. A chance I didn't need.

I kept hoping that it would get better but I don't think anyone I knew had even the slightest idea of what I was going through. Every breath was like a knife slicing through my soul. Every second was torture. Death would have been a welcome respite.

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I sat at the park bench looking out at the freshly mown lush green grass. The wind blew through my long red hair tugging wispy tendrils out of my ponytail. Laughter and whispered bits of conversation drifted towards me from across the park. I heard a dog bark somwhere and a car honk too. All these were the sounds of normalcy to me.

I came to the park everyday at precisely 4 in the evening. I brought along my sketch pad and a few pencils and drew. I drew out of memory. I drew what I saw. I drew my heart out. I always thought memories would last longer if I put everything down on paper. I always wished to write but I just could not get my thoughts and feelings into words.

Today was just another one of those days. I had gathered a few thoughts and ideas in my head that I could not wait to draw. Drawing was my passion. It kept me happy. I turned to a fresh page on my sketch pad and ran my hands over the paper. Nothing felt better than a blank canvas. Something that was all mine to make into whatever I felt like.

I looked around and my eyes fell on the pond where swans were swimming with their cygnets and I made up my mind that that was what I would draw today. I went a little closer to get a better view. I sat cross legged on the damp grass and began. My pencils flew over the blank paper creating beautiful drawings and the swans came to life on paper.

I knew I drew well. At least I had something to be good at. Everyone I knew was either extremely intelligent or breathtakingly beautiful. And me? Well I thought I was pretty okay looking. Not extraordinarily beautiful or anything...

Just huge emerald green eyes framed by high cheekbones and long red hair. I had a bunch of freckles on my nose that I hated and was of average height. I was pretty skinny but not too much that people thought I was anorexic. But I actually did eat a lot more than people thought. At least I was glad for the hair I had. And I would never cut it short even if my life depended on it. It was like the one thing I was really proud of apart from my drawing skills.

When I was done, I just shoved all my art stuff deep into my backpack and stood to walk back home. I always went home with a heavy heart. At home there was no room for hobbies or fun. Art and drawing was considered as a waste of time and energy. That was why I had to keep hiding my art supplies.

I remember when I was a kid and I had run to my Daddy with a drawing I had done. It was a great drawing for a nine-year-old and my little self was very proud of it. I remember having read somewhere that one should never ridicule their kids or turn them away. I guess it is because it scars them for life. I still live with those scars till today as an eighteen-year-old. I remember the rage in his eyes when he saw me with that drawing. He pushed me away with so much force that I fell over the coffee table and yelled at me never to draw again. My mind was too young to fathom the depth of his fury but I had enough sense to always hide my passion from him.

My mother...well what could she do? I think she was worse off than me. At least I could use school as an excuse and go and draw and get some respite from my complicated and torturous life but she was always stuck at home...a mere minion of my father. Always obeying his every command. He would sometimes do unimaginable things with her without caring about the consequences but she would not utter a single word. I guess she had nowhere else to go. But I had vowed that I would work really hard and get out of this hell hole as soon as I possibly could and I would take Mamma with me.

On my way home, it began to rain. Oh dang it. Yet another reason for Daddy to yell at me. He hated it when I got wet in the rain. As if I even did it on purpose. I pulled the sleeves on my jumper sleeves lower until they covered my fingers. I never wore short sleeves because sometimes if people looked closely, they noticed the scars and Daddy did not like being questioned. So I preferred hiding it.

I walked the rest of the distance hurriedly trying to push away all the thoughts from my head. It was easier not to think. At least it didn't hurt that way.

I stood outside the doors to our house, the rain running down my face, took a deep breath and knocked.