I stare at the blank page in front of me, playing with my pencil, deep in thought.
I can write about anything in the world, right? I can explore any topic and create my own story. So then why doesn't my sheet have any ink on it?
I gaze out of my window, staring at the twinkling stars in awe, trying to know their story.
A girl. I'll write about a girl. She is… probably thirteen? Yes, she's thirteen. And she's got big dreams. But in this place, she's not allowed to dream. She's not allowed to see the world, and why is that? Because she lives with her foster parents who are anything but kind. They won't let her think, won’t let her feel. The girl lives in complete isolation, secluded with nothing but the eerie silence of the attic. But she has an idea of what the world might be like. So she pens it down. She gazes out of her window sometimes, looks at the numerous stars in the sky. They are like diamonds on an indigo coloured silk cloth...
I hear the shrill noise of my small alarm clock and fold the little piece of paper I was writing on. I take a deep breath and look at my small room...the attic. I look at the small old mattress next to the wall on which I sleep, the small study table and wooden chair across the room seem like the only beautiful pieces here, and that one corner of my room where my foster parents dump all the things they don't need. And I think that one day, someday, I won't have to see this when I wake up every morning, I won't have to sleep on the uncomfortable mattress, and I won't have to walk on the creaky wooden floor.
"Chimere!" I hear my step-mother Margaret's shrieks from downstairs. I look outside my window one more time. Maybe, my real parents are one of the twinkling stars in the sky, watching over me...
I head downstairs to prepare dinner for my foster parents. They’re bickering about some politician as usual and don’t even bother to look at me as I go into the kitchen. After preparing dinner, starting a fire in the fireplace, bringing all the clothes inside from the front yard, and cleaning the kitchen, I finally retire to my room.
I walk towards my only tiny window as I hear my foster parents argue about how meaningless writing is. They can’t agree on anything anymore and always end up in a heated argument resulting in Margaret locking herself in her room and my step-father George going to the kitchen to fetch himself a glass of whiskey.
I look out of the window again, admiring the beauty of the peaceful night, shutting out all the screams. Then I sigh and get ready for bed. I switch off the one and only bulb in the room and cover myself with my only thin blanket. I wish myself a good night, saying my own name. It is the one thing that I have of my real parents. The only thing that makes me feel close to them. Chimere. They had named me that. It meant "to dream." I didn't know how my real parents looked as they died when I was very little. But I had an idea, and I was going to pen it down.
I sometimes thought of the world. Thought of people. I wanted to explore. I sometimes wondered how the little stars were so courageous. How they managed to shine in the dark night every time. I wondered if we humans were like that too. If we could shine in the dark even though we were afraid of it. If we could light someone else's path. I wondered if I was like that.
I dreamt of seeing fireflies, feeling snow on my skin, hearing the murmurs of waterfalls, reading books, and writing and sharing my stories with the world. I wanted to explore some long lost cities, visit some beautiful countries, meet great personalities, find dragons even though I was told that they were nothing but mythical creatures from fairytale land.
I'm going to write about her tomorrow. The same girl I was writing about today. My new best friend. And when I get the chance, I'll get her to meet the world. I'll share her with you. And if you've read or heard about this girl, it means that her dreams have finally turned into reality.