I'm Not Who You're Looking For (Another Cinderella Story) Editing!

Chapter 1

The musky smell of alcohol processed in my disheveled, unconscious mind, but was disrupted by the sound of birds chirping, like they did every morning that disturbed my scant eight hours of sleep, which was not a lot for a sixteen year old. I groan sleepily and dug my head further into my flat pillow, trying to savour a few more minutes of light that shun on my face, giving me heat and the ache that for some strange reason I particularly enjoyed.

But once again my few minutes of peace was ended when my brain pieced together that my room should not have the aroma of alcohol, and that smell could only mean...

I shot up in my bed, my eyes searching frantically around, ignoring the burning sensation of the bright sun light, and landed on my Step-Father, who was sitting at the foot of my bed with a bottle of whiskey, his substitute of breakfast.

His un-shaven raven head was not looking at me, but eyeing my room up, partially a picture of my Mother and myself, when I was the young age of eight. Only now do I notice the drawn face of a man that had too much sorrow and lonesome in his life. I had to keep reminding myself that he in fact did not used to be like this. Once he was a humble man, that cared for his wife, and his two nonsense sons and his favourite step daughter that looked up to him as her hero for saving her Mother from being lonely after my useless Father left before I was even a fetus.

I move into a sitting persistion, and watch my Step-Father cautiously. I never knew what side of my Step-Father I would become victim to: My Father that had traits of his old self, before my Mothers death. Or the devil himself, the man that could scare even mafia. But looking at the old mans face I saw twinkle of love as he stared down at the picture of my Mum, I let out a sigh, maybe it would be today he was his old self.

"There's toast down stairs." He looked in my direction, and frowned slightly, "I won't be home later, I've got an interview." 

He meant "Job" interview. Some may not call this my Step-Father being affectionate, but he was. Had he ever made me toast before? No. Had he ever tried to have a more than one worded conversation with me? No, not since my Mothers death. Though it was a little step, it made me want to smile, progress.

"That's great!" I tried to sound enthusiastic at the early time of seven thirty am. "What's the interview?" 

He looked away, at the door. I could see he was finding it difficult to make a conversation with me. He had not spoke more than a few sentences to me in the last couple of years, since my Mothers death. I understood that I was the double of his once cherished wife, but it hurt, one day being loved as if I was his own daughter, I often noticed he was more fond of me over his sons, and the next day being the annoying chewing gum stuck on his jeans.

"At a television company. I know, it's nothing special, but it pays." He mutters, giving me a quick glance to see my reaction. 

A deep smile creases up my face. He had eventually started to heal.

"Well," I swallow, and try to steady my stare at my Father who still seeks my approval. "I think this is good! It's a start."

A small smile forms on my Step-Fathers face, and hesitantly he pats my arm, and quickly retracts his arm when he saw my uncomfortable reaction. It was not that I purposely make a face of distress, but after two and a half years of not even a quick glance, a "pat" was a big deal. He was finally going back to his old self. I just hoped it would last.

I saw he was contracting back into his insecurity, and sighed. I knew he was etching to get a away.

"I've got to get ready for school, Good luck at your interview." I say.