ilie's story

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I was born in a beautiful place too two beautiful parents. They were both young; my father was 17, my mother was 15. We lived in a reasonably small community, and my mothers age was a little shunned, and a cause for concern amongst the somewhat conservative folk that we lived within. They assumed it had been a likely misconduct and act of irresponsibility on my parent's behalf, and they would have been right. They were both young and similarly naïve.

My father was a charming, slightly withdrawn, caring but ill-tempered and at times unpredictable male. He loved me very much, and took great pleasure in telling me stories his father had told him, and stories of adventures from recent years and those of his childhood, stories of his life. A life that he had sacrificed for this simple, domestic one. And such did not concern me at the time, but I now think that it was not a life he'd anticipated, and that his previous one was a much-missed former-glory. In falling for my mother, perhaps he did not see the certain end to such a life. Or perhaps he'd thought she'd go with him, on his adventures, a suitable continuation of the romantic, thrilling turn of events that started their relationship. Perhaps he thought that, that was until I came, and jeopardized these plans. But he loved me, when I was younger, loved me dearly, and this I am sure of.

My mother was a sweet, kind, and warm person. I am sad to say I remember little of her, only her undying devotion to my father, who perhaps did not reciprocate such emotions. Perhaps because he felt he'd been pulled into a life he didn't want, so found himself wandering, found it was not enough to satisfy him. My mother is the only person in my life who never did me any wrongs, who remains in my mind an un-tainted memory. I am so sad to admit I feel I never really knew her.

I was an innocent puppy, enthralled with the world around me. Due to the fact that my parents were somewhat shunned in our neighborhood, I hence was effected by this prejudice, and though spent some times with others my age, most all of my time was spent alone. But I embraced this fully, easily finding ways to entertain myself. I had always been creative with discovering new things to do and games to play. In lack of existing companions, I created for myself various imaginary friends to keep me company and join in on my games. As other little girls sought to be rescued by charming princes, I would look out to where the sea met the sky and fantasize about being abducted by pirates, to engage in marvelous adventures like my father, and the characters in his stories.

So my life was lovely. I remember my childhood so fondly, but now it's… Only a lost memory, faded, vague. Overwritten by all the events and experiences that followed. I spent my days just playing, with my mom and dad in the early years when their relationship was still strong, and by myself, exploring the forest in which we lived.

This lifestyle continued many peaceful years, until I was around eleven years of age. My mother's health had never been very good, and for a year or so she'd had what she'd referred to as ' a bit of a cold'. But in a matter of months it quickly worsened, to the extent she hardly left the cave in which we lived. My mother and father's relationship had weakened, and I have the feeling that perhaps his unfaithful nature had been the cause, but he loved her dearly, and it caused him much grief to see her in such a condition. He was different, we didn't play any more, rarely did he seem to have the time. He spent his days with my mother in the darkness of our little cave, watching her. Watching her die. I'd come in and try to talk to her, sometimes she could talk, a lot of the time she was too weak or exhausted. My father always became worried, worried I'd smother her, worried I'd make her worse, and worried how it would effect me. She told me she'd be better soon; my father said nothing about her illness, only beckoned me away from her. Told me she was too ill to talk, to go elsewhere and play. I spent my days alone. People were leaving, people were dying.

My mother's condition continued to worsen. Something happened when I was twelve, roughly, that threw my life of course. There were few who bothered to talk to me, stay in my company for long, but I had managed to befriend a young male, some years older than me. I'd noticed that men in general seemed to take an odd sort of interest in me. He'd leave and come back, every few months, and I waited faithfully for his return. He was my only friend, the only person who wanted to talk to me and understand me.

And something happened, one day when he came back. He was behaving a bit odd, I didn't take any notice. We went swimming, and afterwards, when we were playing on the grass, he starting acting very odd. Getting rougher, he started to hurt me. I told him this, numerous times, but it was like he didn't hear my words, like it wasn't him. I won't re-tell the details of the incident, but it remains as all terrifying experiences do, crystal clear in my mind. A familiar voice rang in my ears. My father had come, to rescue me. He fought him off, ripped his skin and left his blood splattered on the earth. Observing the fight, terrified, I ran back home to my mother. She saw the blood, she comforted me as best she could, but the effort and distress was too much for her frail condition.

When my father returned, my mother was coughing, heaving clots of blood out onto the earth. He desperately ordered me to leave, demanded I leave the cave.

For the next days, my father wouldn't let me see my mother, and he dismissed all my efforts to be comforted. He didn't understand what had happened. Neither did I, I couldn't tell him what had happened. My father had worked for years to gain the acceptance of the others in our community, to excel and rise in the hierarchy. Our family had been thought badly of since the beginning, it had been a struggle for him. The rumors spread of what had happened to me, but not the actual events. 'His daughter, she's just like her mother', they spoke, they spoke of my mother's illness, of my father's inability to care for his family. His reputation disintegrated, and my mother… She could hardly eat, hardly move, hardly speak.

My father returned from hunting one evening to find me beside my mother, licking her face, trying to wake her. I didn't understand. My father ordered me out, yelling at me to leave at once, but this time he did not stay within the cave to ferociously worry and fret over my mother's condition. He followed me out, yelling at me. He told me I'd made her sicker, my actions, I was killing her. I ruined his reputation, now in winter, the harshest of all seasons the others would not allow him a share of the hunt and he couldn't find the food to feed my mom, and it was because of me. He said he would show me the same humiliation I had dealt him.

My father had loved me once, I'm sure of it. But mom was dying, he couldn't help her, he was angry. There was nobody to blame; he was helplessly watching his world decay around him. Perhaps there were other things, other things I didn't know of. He told me I was worthless, told me that there was only one thing I'd ever be useful for, told me to leave and never come back. I sought the help of those around me, but nobody wanted to be involved, nobody wanted to listen. I ran through the trees, tears streaming down my face, when I met him again. My friend. He apologized, or tried to, but I ran, ran for my life. Terrified of him.

I ran and ran and ran, with nowhere to run to. I just ran until I could no longer recognize anything around me, until my lungs heaved and ached as though they were on fire. And I was completely alone. I'd never been alone in my life, never had to dela by myself or care for myself. I hardly found enough food to eat and almost starved, but as the winter days grew few and morphed into spring, food was far more plentiful and eays to find. I thought many times about returning home, but I was too scared to face my father.

Not just did the change in climate help me survive, but I found a new method. I found my father was right, there was something I could offer other people. I didn't have to be alone. I discovered that this interest men had had with me for many years now, it could be used to my advantage. And this meant I could spend my nights in the company of others, as many nights as possible. There were so many other interesting things to do in the world, games I would have shared with all these people I met, but it seemed they only had one interest. But at least I had something to give them, right? AT least I was beautiful. Perhaps I would not have survived, did I not possess this beauty, but I've grown to despise it, regret I was born this way.

So such was my lifestyle, and I stayed optimistic. I resented that people would call me names, awful things, because of the way I lived. I didn't feel I had a choice. I had nothing else to offer people, what could I do about it? I didn't know what else to do, I just didn't want to have to dela all by myself. I didn't know what was going to happen to me, if this would be my life forever. I didn't think about it, I just went with the flow and hoped for the best.

It was then, two years later when I was 15, that I met a male by the name of Phic. I assumed he would want from me what every other did, and offered it freely as usual, but oddly enough he rejected me. Though I was taken aback, I was perfectly happy (in fact, somewhat relieved) to be in his company anyway. He was an uncommonly sweet and good-natured guy, a year older than me, and with him I formed a bond commonly recognised as friendship. For whatever reason, he liked to be around me.

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little ilie's

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