Chapter 1- Vega

"Be a good girl now and stay still. This won't hurt… much." The sound of the voice hung in the air like icicles, their edges sharp and cold. My pulse quickened, and fear crawled up my spine. Who was this? What did they want from> 

The world was in a deep darkness, but my sense sharpened by the fear. The fabric against my eyes was, of course, a veil that denied me from my sight. Panic surged- like a wild animal trapped in a snare. My head thrashed about while the bindings provided my skin with their cruel kiss of restraint. My hands strained against the restraints, but they held firm as the metal mocked me with their jingling. The room smelled of dampness, and the only sound I could hear past my prison was the dripping of water mimicking the pattern of a beating heartbeat. The cold air against my torso brought me to the revelation that I was topless. Goosebumps danced across my skin in a silent plea for warmth, a plea that remained unanswered. 

"Stop moving!" The words hung in the air, their weight pressing down my limbs. I froze- a statue carved from fear. 

The bonding swallowed my cries, silencing them within me. My shoulder blade pulled apart, and searing tendrils of agony lashed through my flesh. The restraints mocked me harder as I pulled and twisted in them while something pushed its way out of my spine. I hung there silently, praying for the pain to end. 

"Beautiful. Perfect." The voice, a velvet whisper, entered the hollow of my ear. Words laced with poisonous honey. "These will make me a pretty penny, my beautiful fairy." 

The voice's hunting laughter reverberated through the silence, a chilling echo that pierced like a knife. The abyss swallowed away my surroundings and, in its wake, left only emptiness. 

I awoke, gasping, my fingers tangled in sweat-soaked sheets. Blinking away the remnants of my dreams. My small, cluttered apartment materialized. Cardboard boxes piled up, waiting for me to uncover their packed treasures. The uneven bedside table housed my alarm clock; its frayed pixels mocked me with the hour of 4 am. I groaned, knowing there was no way I would get any more sleep before the obnoxious beeping started.

My skin felt clammy, the evaporating sweat leaving a chilled film on my skin. The old band shirt I'd doubled as pajamas was still damp along my back. Frustration surged as I kicked back the heavy duvet and crossed the small apartment to the attached bathroom. 

The ancient pipes groaned as I turned on the shower, waiting for the water to reach the head. My reflection in the bathroom mirror revealed dark circles etched themselves beneath my blue—almost indigo eyes. A reminder that I wasn't just my mother's child but that I carried a legacy of a man who'd abandoned his responsibilities before I even took my first breath. My mahogany brown hair stuck out in every direction, not just a testimony to my restless nights but to its natural need to defy gravity. Stripping off the worn-out shirt, I turned my back to the mirror and glanced over my shoulder. Tracing the gruesome lateral lines, angry and red as the day they first appeared on my ghostly skin.

Jumping into the lukewarm water, I washed away the remaining evidence of my nightmare. I was cursing myself for falling prey to the sandman's tricks. Before I could take the pills that kept my dreams at bay, staying in slumber land until the alarm shattered the spell, my pale skin turned blotchy pink as I scrubbed harder, secretly hoping the water would seep into my veins, wiping away all traces of that eerie noise that had haunted me since adolescence.

No matter how hard I tried to escape, one word echoed relentlessly: "Fairy." I'd dismissed it as a sick joke, a nickname someone might give a lover. That was the only explanation. Fairies belonged in poems and stories, the stuff of girls' fantasies—knights rescuing them, magical realms beyond the veil.

Those same stories had been my refuge after the only person I ever loved left this realm. But as I grew older, I realized they were just stories. Comforting tales that turned and bit us when we realized pixie dust wouldn't transport us to Never Ever Land.

The thinned-out towel clung to my damp skin, its texture like a whisper against my goosebumped flesh. As I stepped into the room, the warmth enveloped me- as the familiar sunrays filtered through the burgundy curtains. I scanned through the familiar chaos as I searched for fresh clothing, too, something comfortable for a long while I knew I had to encounter today. The old band shirt with the letters half-peeled was the first thing that caught my eye, crumpled up next to the suitcase I had abandoned last night. I paired it with a pair of black leggings held together by a few stitches and hope. Lastly, my beaten-up high-tops awaited me. The laces threatened to snap every time I attempted to tie them up. But nothing in this world could make me throw them out. They had carried me across the city streets and down the forest trails. I often found myself exploring when the sandman refused to treat me with sleep relaxation.  

Prepared with armour, I set off to wrap up the tasks I had abandoned for my restless sleep. Dust danced in the sunlight as I shifted through the boxes- the remnants of a life once shared. My mother, who departed too soon, left me with no known family to claim as my own. After the social workers packed up my mother's belongings and relegated them to storage, they were left forgotten treasures in a hidden cave. Only recently did I manage to rescue them from their silent slumber.

Her heart was a condition still unknown. Yet her love had been a constant. And now, as I lifted the lid of a box, I found her legacy: journals of multicoloured covers. On every page- held the stories we had shared, the dreams she had spun for me. But the clues were tucked between the pages- the man who gave me my indigo eyes.

Among the pages fading with time were the adventures they had embarked upon, the love that could have defied the distances and a promise broken too soon. And buried within the words were the missing pieces- the bridge between the past and the man who shared my blood and yet had no interest in my existence.

The day I moved into this studio apartment, the air was thick with hopes for my future; not only did I bring the few belongings I had, but my weight of curiosity. That night, as dusk tip-toed towards midnight, I sat there gathered around the books, each holding a fragment of the puzzle, leading me deeper into the quest to uncover a great mystery. And there, tucked between love letters and faded photographs, the biggest key to our quest was a name etched enterally in ink- Liam Wolfgang.

Armed with his name like a determined archer, I started the path to my destiny. Believing that seeking my father out would put me on a path of closure, I had been seeking for so long. I knew deep within me my mother would want her unspoken words to make their way to him. She had missed him, and her heart had longed for him till the day it stopped beating. I embarked on my detective quest, sifting through my mother's writing and the vast expanse of the internet. I discovered that he worked for a company in a small town, a day's drive away from the city I was now claiming to call my home. I convinced William to let me have a few days off work, booked a hotel near the town, and got prepared to close the void I had dreamed of doing for so long.

I finished packing the old suitcase with the remaining items for this trip. Each zip was a small triumph- the zipper threatened to give into the overuse of the past. Lastly, I grabbed the tattered book that lay abandoned on the floor where it had fallen from the bed last night. Its corners bore the scars from the many years of me dog-earing its pages, and its spine rebounded too many times. But my stubbornness refused to part with it.

Inside, my mother's inscription glimmered: "To my Vega may your star sign bright." The book itself unfolded tales of constellations and the stories they held within their stars. Among them, Veg and Altair lovers are torn apart yet resolute in their celestial bond. A love my mother had hoped would find its echoes in my name: Vega Alexia Wolfgang.  

The creaking stairs led me down into the back room of the record shop—a sanctuary where vinyl whispered stories of resilience. My studio apartment perched above is a humble refuge carved out of necessity. I was no stranger to adversity, having aged out of the foster care system—a precarious transition that left me teetering on the edge of independence.

Outside, the streets had been my home—a mosaic of concrete and shadows: no outside support, no safety net. Survival became an art form, and the shelters, with their meagre meals, were both sanctuary and trial. Starvation had etched its cruel signature on my bones, and the sustenance they offered felt like manna from heaven—my last supper before the streets swallowed me whole.

When the shelter doors closed in daylight, the city's pulse shifted. Food and shelter became urgent priorities. Some local shops extended kindness, offering what they could—a sandwich and coffee. But desperation sometimes leads to desperate choices. Was stealing a loaf of bread worth the risk of incarceration? Hunger gnawed at my insides, and morality blurred in the harsh light of survival.

And then, salvation—among the records that lined William's shop. Lyrics etched in vinyl, melodies that bridged past and present. The artists who'd paved their way through struggles sang to me, their voices echoing my journey. William, grizzled and kind, became my unlikely friend. We shared half-lunches, our stories woven together like the grooves on a record.

One day, over a sandwich and a shared dream, William offered me more—a job, a small apartment, and a pocketful of cash. My gratitude overflowed as I stepped into the role of shopkeeper, dusting off memories and spinning hope. The walls absorbed my whispers—the ache of abandonment, the yearning for permanence.

Years of scrimping and saving had led me to the day I could have finally claimed my little blue beetle. She sat outside the record store, her faded paint a testament to resilience. Not sleek or glamorous, but she wore her scars with pride. Running on silent prayers and sheer determination, she should have retired to the junkyard long ago. Yet here she was, mine—a survivor like me.

Today, her trunk held my hopes and fear as the suitcase, packed with essentials, lay ready for the journey. And there, in the front passenger seat, rested my mother's box—a fragile relic of the past. She'd left too soon, leaving me with no known family. But her spirit rode with me, whispering courage.

The engine sputtered to life as I settled into the driver's seat. The blue beetle hummed, ready to carry me beyond city limits. The road stretched ahead—an open canvas for our adventure.