The light in the bedroom is soft. It projects the slight movements of the girl into her mother into intricate shadow dances along the wall. The girl moves her hand and something dark that is not her hand on the wall moves in unison. She giggles, and it is a beautiful sound. Her mother is whispering into her ear, quietly, as not to awake people slumbering in the silent night. She is telling her of the beautiful things in the world, of falling snow and crystal clear water, of sandy beaches and immense forests. They do this every night, staying up into the small hours of the night whispering to each other, mostly her mother telling her about the world.
She is four years old, and already she is the person she will be for the rest of her life. To her everything is very simple. If she needs something, she will ask for it, and if she wants something, she will strive towards it. She, even as a young child, speaks with confidence and intelligence without fear of contradiction or judgement. Embarrassment is not a concept to her. This is who she is, and who she will be.
Her childhood is fast and blurry. All she can remember is her mother, and the late night talks. As a teenager, she does all the things a rebellious teenager does. She plays loud music, she smokes weed. She drinks, dyes her hair, and writes dark poetry. She is attractive, and is often approached by the opposite sex. If she finds them competent enough, by her own set of mysterious standards, she will ask them if they what kind of commitment they want. After a simple answer, she will explain what kind of commitment she wants. They back away slowly, their eyes get big, they politely excuse themselves. It's all the same to her. It's all very simple.
She wants someone to spend the rest of her life with. Everyone she's ever met and everything she's ever seen in the media is telling her that she will be happier with a significant other. She is just able to understand, unlike everyone else, how perfectly simple it is. Everyone is blind to how easy love is, they are all caught up in this insane game, this endless web and she is free. There is really no game.
This method failed to work all through her first three years of high school, but that didn't stop her. She kept asking, as they approached. She developed a bit of a reputation around her school as the weird one, or the clingy, attached one. She didn't care.
Then, a month into her senior year of high school, Peter Holter turned and looked into her eyes in advanced placement chemistry. And that was the end of everything. She had never felt anything like what she felt then. It was warm and addictive, and a little bit too much. It lasted a second. And then it was gone. Maybe, if she wasn't who she was, she would have waited for him to approach her. But she was very much exactly who she was.
She approached him after class, nervous. She had never been nervous before. It wasn't a choice, it just came upon her. She took a deep breath, and began the conversation. She told him, a little awkwardly, about her situation, what she had just felt, and what she wanted. Just right there, in the middle of the hallway. She waited for him to laugh, or simply walk away. She knew this time it would hurt. But he didn't. He nodded, as if it wasn't important enough to voice it. She just looked at him. Then, all of a sudden he leaned in, kissed her, nodded again, and walked away. She stood there with an expression on her face that had never crossed it before. She had found what she was looking for.