Among the Waya

Prologue

                   What we can or cannot do, what we consider possible or impossible, is rarely a function of our true capability. It is more likely a function of our beliefs about who we are.
~Tony Robbins

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  I was never much for fairy tales when I was child. Princesses and princes, scary ogres and wicked witches were just figments of some author's imagination. Werewolves and vampires were simply legends told in a manner of entertainment. I was taught never to be afraid of such rubbish. Never give up even in the most desperate of times. Show no weakness, no matter how hard you were pushed or tempted to fail. Failure was not an option.

I know it sounds like I had miserable childhood. It really wasn't that bad, if you think that having no toys was harsh. I much preferred the books and maps my father gifted me with. They were wildly interesting if you actually took the time to study and learn to understand them. But to be honest, as a child all I had was time.

My father was Charles Vincent Boroughs, a Latin professor at Canifeld University. His days were spent teaching rigorously advanced courses at the University, and I was left home with my au pair, Maribel. She was unmarried twenty-five year old woman who hated the idea of falling in love. In fact, the concept of love was practically non existent to her.

She treated me with the utmost gentleness, and nurtured my attitude towards learning. My schedule included lessons in three languages; French, German, and of course, Latin. I was also exposed to geography, arithmetic, traditional literature studies, and many variations of the sciences at a young age. Music lessons were also mandatory, with piano lessons with the always strict Madame Vivian, and violin and vocal training with Mrs. Andrea.

Art was my favorite. Water color, sketching, oil painting, you name it, I loved it. But it was genetic, I suppose. My mother had been a lover of the arts. Especially the world of painting landscapes. Many of her paintings used to hang in our home. That is, until she died, when I was four.

Cancer. She was an extraordinary woman, from what I remember of her. Her voice sounded like an angel when she sang. Lullabies were her favorite, when she would put me to bed as a young girl. Mom would start with a soft melody, then extend into beautiful verses  that sounded of romantic poetry. But when she died, all of her sweet, melodious serenades disappeared with her. I was to young to reconcile the words, and I missed her dearly.

After my mother's passing, my father dived into work. His personality that used to be lighthearted and joking dispersed into a dark and invisible shadow of a human being. The light in his once cheerful eyes vanished, replaced by dark orbs of depression. My father was gone, and had been for years. He became stricter, meaner even. My father pushed me more towards the goal of intense studies, rather than the path of a happy childhood.

But eventually I grew up, and began to understand his reasoning for such severe dedication. I realized that I was far more than intelligent. I was incredible when I put my whole focus into something. I was taught not to back down from any challenge, to be completely honest and never withhold the truth. Dishonest people ended up in bad places.

Father's personality never shifted back to what it been before Mom had died, but once I turned thirteen, we started to interact with one another more. We held long conversations about different things, mostly related the academics. I knew my father loved me, and wanted me to succeed in life. That's why he was so driven on my education.

I was driven also, wanting to excel at everything I attempted. Admitting, I am overachiever; an extremist even. Perfection is what I intended to achieve, and when I wanted something, I got it. That's why in our small North Carolina town of Westbury, I was known as University snob, who did everything in her power to achieve mastery in every form of activity.

I go to a public high school, by selection of my father. The nearest private school was a 56 mile drive west, crossing into the state of Tennessee. My father thought it was too much of a commute, so I attend classes at Westbury High School. I am a senior, in a class of only 226 students. My best friend is named Kassie Thompson, our schools top female athlete. My father wasn't very accepting of our friendship; he believed Kassie was just another distraction that would lead me astray from my path to greatness. But sometimes you need to have at least one good friend to get you through life.

Our town was obsessed with the idea of the supernatural. I believe it was partly because many of our residents came from Native American heritage. We were located near the Cherokee Indian Reservation, so a lot of people had relatives at the fair that lived there. No full-blooded Cherokee went to my school though. Their culture fascinated me, but my father would never permit me to study it. Eventually I moved on from the idea. That was until he came along, and changed everything I had ever known.