BROKEN BONDS

"Wait!" I heard the woman call out to me as I dragged my belongings with me and ran "I didn't even catch your name!" she yelled again. I spun around and with a goofy smile I replied "Danielle Brown"

Now, I wasn't stupid. I knew that I was no dancer and it would be almost impossible to learn how to be a professional dancer in one week – which was the stipulated deadline for the recruit. I could barely carry myself talk less of doing stunts and whatnot. But if there was anything I had learned in the past year – it was the hard painful truth that I was all alone. I had no mom to call, no dad to bother, and no friend to Scott with, I also had no job and was practically homeless so as insane as this may sound, this was my last chance to turn my messed up life into something well, meaningful.

There was one person though, who was an amazing dancer and who I just happened to know, I had a minus one million in one chance that she would agree, but then again, if there's anything I've learned, it's that anyone – as long as it's with the right reasoning and proper psychological calculations – can change their mind.

I dumped my stuff in the alley I had found, I honestly hoped I had hidden it well, the last thing I needed was to be stuck in the streets without any clothes or belongings, well, if this went well, I might not need those thrift clothes anyway. I mentally praised myself for my choice of shoes today, I couldn't imagine running around in heels, especially with all that had already occurred. It should be past midnight now, which – as odd as it may sound, was the best time to see her. Risky, but worth it.

I took to my heels and ran down the deserted street, my heart was racing, not just because of the adrenaline of running block after block but also the underlying fear that some serial killer roaming the streets right now would grab me and kill me, sounds like some cliche scene from a poorly directed movie, but c'mon, that would make a good book. I mean, I wasn't a writer, far from it. I loved to paint, to give life to imaginations just like writers but unlike them, I used paintbrushes and a worn-out canvas.

I paused when I finally reached my destination, I must have been running for hours now, at this rate, I should be featured in some superhero movie cause my energy is unmatched. Nostalgia flooded through me as I stared with bored eyes, my fists clenched and my feet dug into the ground, my skin was suddenly very sensitive to the cold that until now I had never noticed. My long blonde hair seemed to poke on my skin as the wind blew it about, the hairs on my neck stood though and I still could not get the possibility that I was being watched by some serial killer out of my mind.

I was staring at the building in front of me and through it at the same time, it seemed like ages since I had been here, even though it had just been one year, I ignored the throbbing in my head and the ache in my limbs as my thoughts wandered to a few years ago, a decade and well farther than that. A frown grew across my face as I stared at the garden, I recounted the day I had made a painting of my dark thoughts. oh yes, growing up I had severe social anxiety.

I found it hard to communicate with other people because there was never any form of similarity between us. The other kids were fond of talking about their parents and how much fun they had with their Dads, there was this dark-haired skinny emo girl back then, she probably isn't important in my story but I'll tell you anyway, her name was Agnes, Agnes hated her body because she believes she wasn't pretty enough, she hated her face and hair too. She cut her hair after the first year in uni, I wouldn't say I was shocked when she walked into class with her previously weight length hair barely reaching her shoulders, I barely knew her at all till we became roommates in my third year, Agnes studied Gynecology as a major while I decided to major as a pediatrician.

Agnes wasn't like every other girl I had met and I only found out just how much she hated her body when we became roommates, I wasn't one to sleep in a lot, I was practically an um, night person. I would hear noises of how she would slip out of our room into the in-build bathroom, I would her sobs, they weren't too loud. They were the kind of cries you would hear from someone who was fed up with being heard. The first time I mustered up courage was the day I saw her scars and her body. She was so slim, broken, fragile and in some sick, painful manner, she reminded me of me, of the thousands of people who just like her were uncomfortable with something or one part of their life.

Agnes suffered from anorexia, it's um, a mental disorder where a person has this obsession to lose weight and seek perfection so they go out of their way to be slimmer, fitter.

They stop eating and start purging, they start getting colder, slimmer and their definition of reality and perfection blurs completely.

I remember that Agnes always wore clothes that covered her body completely and even in summer she was really cold. Agnes never knew each other. It's not like we didn't like each other. We just never had a chance to connect. You might think um, there's a lot of time in a few years to get to know women, anyone. But just like twenty-four hours is never enough, you can never truly know anyone even in a lifetime.

That's not the point though.

The point is that I saw Agnes broken, hurt, shattered. But nothing, nothing could ever match the happiness and glint in her eyes whenever she got parcels from her dad or got a message from him, he worked in Arizona. He struggled to pay their bills and her college fee.

I recalled the day we had a small exercise on father's day, everyone had amazing things to say, I know, I'm not gullible, I know – not everyone has a good dad. But damn. I wanted my Dad, the one that wasn't just my mom's husband, the one who dared to be with my mother to make her pregnant, the one who should have freaking loved me. But then I heard Agnes speak, she said her father died when she was three and that she was Adopted.

Agnes reminded not just me but there were millions of people out there that blood didn't make a family. It would never be enough to be fulfilled. It would never heal your wounds or sort out your nightmares, being related to someone does not make you friends. It's growing up with them, creating bonds, having arguments. Sorting them out, those dumb moments that make the best memories.

That was what family was about. I didn't find my family in my mother, or all her relatives that kicked her out when she was just sixteen with a big belly. I found my family in form of a tall, brown-eyed brunette who loved music and movies from the nineties and loved to sleep in a stars wars themed room.

I found a family in a rich man who had a poor heart, someone who was as lonely as me and damn. Someone who knew what it felt to not have anyone to call even when you have a thousand contacts on your phone.

I found a family in Derek, Today I was going to see a part of him. A part of my family. Derek’s eighteen-year-old daughter and my step sister – Rye. She detested me growing up and although I've got no clue how I am going to make her help me, I know I've got to do it. No matter what.

I was going to fix my life like the twenty-three old I did not ask to be