Forever

| Chapter One ~ Reasons Why I Hate My Life ~ |

Richelle's Pov
Ugh. I groaned as my reflection stared at me. I stood in front of the mirror, trying to find a way to look nice. My parents had picked out a dress for me to wear for the night. It was a ruby red skintight dress that I was much too inappropriate. It ended right at the top of my thigh, showing practically all of my legs and had a huge v-shaped slit going through the middle, showing too much cleavage. Too much cleavage for a sixteen year old. It made me feel so uncomfortable.

You see, everyone seemed to think my life was great; it wasn't. I was brought up on a huge estate which we still lived on to this day; a million dollar mansion. I was the eldest of four siblings, and definitely not the favourite. In fact, my parents hated me. My siblings, they loved. But me, they hated. I didn't know why; I never knew why.

In fact, I thought it was normal. I thought that it was normal parenting to constantly hit your children. That was until my sister, Elizabeth was born. They never laid a finger on her, neither did they on any of my other siblings. But they always hit me.

I had no friends since my parents homeschooled me. Well, barely. They just gave me a pile of work to do for the day and that was it. If I didn't get the answers right, they would just hit me. I hated my life.

But there was one thing I loved; stories. I loved to read and write. I often sat on my windowsill, staring down at my notepad as a ray of sunshine warmed me, comforted me. I sat there, writing everything I dreamt of, but in a story way. I never made myself a character in a story; it was always someone else.

I loved to write romantic stories. I dreamt about being whisked away by a handsome young man on a white stallion, and we'd gallop off into the sunset. I dreamt about a handsome young man finding me in a garden of roses, a sea of red, and he'd pick just the right rose for me.

I dreamt, and I dreamt, but it never happened.

I stared at myself some more. Some may call it vein, but I call it pain. I felt so uncomfortable, so exposed. My mother called me a disgrace, my father told me I wasn't a real Nolet. Not in the sense that I was adopted, but in the sense that I didn't fit in. He was right. I didn't fit in.

I had to pretend at this party tonight that I did fit in. I hated it. My parents would always host a social gathering at the end of each month with their posh friends to show off how rich they were. They ordered in the most expensive food, clothes and decorations. I wished that I could just write stories for the whole time, but that was forbid not allowed.

Oh how I wished to have a friend. Someone I could talk to. Someone I could have hour long phone calls with. Someone who would listen to me. Someone who would comfort and care for me. Someone to kiss my forehead when I was feeling sad. Someone to kiss me on the lips when I was overjoyed. Someone to hug me when I needed it most. That's all it would ever be; a wish.

There was no fairy godmother in the real world.

"Richelle," my mother called to me in her fake happy voice, "the guests have arrived. Could you come down now sweetie?"

I prepared myself for the worst. Fake smile on, here I went.