Birthday Party

I first became a Wanderer a year ago on my eighteenth birthday, August 1st. It was a small party with only six people in attendance: Mom, Dad, Uncle Romford, my two eldest brothers and my best friend Lyra. We were all sitting casually around the table, watching as the clock slowly ticked its way to 5:48PM with bated breath. In all honesty, it's a weird family tradition to have; the Ashfields would set up the party decorations in the same room; the balloons and streamers and banners were hung in the same place; we always sat in the same silence before the clock struck at the hour of birth and we broke our vigil. It was no different for mine either: the decor was the same green-blue as every year, and the cake was still strawberry-vanilla flavoured. The walls were a muted pastel cream colour, and I could smell the pungeant odour of the Sharpies my family used to sign my card.

Tick. Tock.

Tick. Tock.

The clock's hands kept inching forward, and everyone huddled together like a group of penguins fighting the cold. I watched as the candles flickered from Chris and Marcus' breathing before they steadied lazily into their typical straight flames. As soon as the clock hit 5:48PM, the whole family erupted into exuberant cheers and screamed "Happy birthday, Dian!" (Chris and Marcus, much to my chagrin, called me 'I-Dia-t' instead, and I returned the sentiments by chucking a paper cup in their direction). I blew out my candles as my parents and uncle snapped photos, and even Lyra cracked a rare smile as they all congratulated me.

Despite the happy occasion, I couldn't help but feel oddly uneasy. It wasn't because of my family, as irritating as my brothers can get, but rather because I felt something fall off my face. It was stiff, plasticky, as if someone had put thin sheets of superglue over my eyes and they'd only fallen off just now. Mind you, I hate anything on my face, be it sunscreen or makeup or the abomination that is mud masks (my mother was OBSESSED), so that feeling made me blink pretty harshly. I stared hard at the table, blinking like I'd gotten a lash stuck in my eye, and inevitably caught Dad's attention.

"Are you okay, Honey? Did something get caught there?" He tilted my chin up, slowly peering into my face. I laughed as I brushed him off gently, tracing a finger against my lash line.

"I'm fine Dad, just got a little dust. I'll be alright."

"Of course you'll be alright," Marcus cut in, "you'd sooner die of a heart attack than some dust in your eye." He snatched a strawberry off my cake, chuckling as Chris pinched one of the white chocolate details.

"Hey, give that back!" I yelled, armed with a plastic knife and chasing after them.

Soon enough the evening began to wind down and we all laughed together as we ate heartily. The sky steadily grew darker outside, and eventually we all had to turn in for bed. Lyra, still chuckling, said her goodbyes and made her way down the road to her house, Uncle Romford not too far behind. As I got settled into bed, yawning lazily, I heard Mom creep into my room with my favourite bedtime book in hand. I smiled at the much beloved cover, tattered, worn with age and frayed at the edges, as she thumbed through the fairy tales to Cinderella.

"Mom, don't you think I'm a bit too old for bedtime stories?" I chuckled, pulling my baby blue dino plushie to my chest despite myself. I could practically hear her smile in the dim light as she said, "I know, Dian. At least let me read to you one more night, if only for old times' sake."

I leaned back, tucking the covers to my chin.

"One more night then."

Mom cleared her throat, speaking softly. I could feel the hazy mist of sleep cover my eyes as she read the words aloud. I could barely make out the image of a girl running down the palace steps, her slipper left behind, as I closed my eyes.

"Once upon a time, long, long ago, there lived a beautiful young girl named Cinderella..."

And with that, I was already fast asleep. You're probably wondering what this has to do with anything, given the rather long introduction I gave you last time. I can assure you, this is important. I didn't realise at that time that my mother's reading would become a conduit for my Wandering, nor the crazy and almost unbelievable things that happened afterwards either. I mean, I was aware of the physical aspect of things, what with all the incessant, dreary government messages on the TV, but I wasn't truly aware of the metaphysical aspect.

That night, I dreamed my first 'dream'; that is to say, I wandered into my first world.