Excerpt: I Am Nobody

My name is Nobody and I am 16 years old today. A solitary, lonely, forgotten 16. My crazy mixed-up parents could not even spend more than two seconds thinking about naming me. So the "joke of the moment" name turned in to the "put it on her birth certificate" name that just kind of stuck. As in: "Who is that?"/"Oh, Nobody." And "Who is crying in the next room?"/"What? Oh that. That is just Nobody. Ignore it. We do." Or my personal favorite, regarding a conversation my father had with the construction contractor about my tiny, once linen closet now turned bedroom: "Nobody needs this space." It was a blanket statement out of the stern mouth of my father. The contractor simply nodded, no questions asked, and jotted down some notes with a cheap BIC pen on to a frayed, old notepad before mumbling some jumbled jargon in to his walkie and next thing you know, a wrecking ball (black steel and ominous) came flying through the brick wall and knocked the walls down! All in order to make room for the walk-in closet expansion for my shop-acholic mother in the Master Suite. As my father realized his mistake in choice of words, he barely flinched, opting instead to shrug his shoulders and pull the rope latch that brought the attic door down in the hallway, opening to reveal a short set of steps in a cloud of dust and debris. A quick head jerk towards the attic steps and brief glance at me was all I got before he hurried downstairs to tell dear mother the happy news about her closet expansion going smoothly. And it is to these steps that I now run, three short steps that lead me to sanctuary. Because at least here in the attic, I no longer have to pretend. I know I am alone.

Hi, my name is Nobody. I am 16 years old today. And I sleep in the cold, cramped attic with only my thoughts to comfort me. Some fairytale, huh?

***

If it was not for my brother, I am not sure where I would be right now. Certainly, not here, not in this house. No one chooses to live this way, essentially exiled in an attic tower, like the fairy tale princesses in fabled stories. But, unlike those stories, there is no bubbly fairy godmother with a magic wand or friendly genie in an antique, battered lamp willing to grant me three wishes. I have no white knights on top of noble white horses, no charming fairy tale princes with gilded tongues and handsome faces. There are no enchanted wardrobes leading to mystical other worlds filled with talking creature and exciting adventures and battles. There are only boxes upon boxes of baby clothes and travel souveniers and toys that Dean has long out grown over the years. And the mice that scuttle across the wooden attic floor at night certainly do no talk to me, nor do they construct clever little dresses out of found materials and scraps while I sleep. No, my life is certainly not some enchanted tale out of your story books and the sooner I can resign myself to that fact, the better. But I just can not seems to give up hope. And so I stay, holding on tightly to whatever tiny shreds of fantasy and magic I can cling on to, considering the circumstances. And Dean, I stay for Dean: my only friend, my only confidante, my only solace and glimmer of light in an otherwise gray and dreary existence. Without him, I would have absolutely no one.