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home?

"No," I said. "I want to keep trying." "You sure, honey?" she asked.

I looked at my face in the mirror. It was still a

mask. I was tired of looking at it. It was time to tear it

off and take a chance on what I would find. Would I

find a little girl again? Had all that had happened

stopped me from growing up? How silly that would

be, a little girl's face on a body as mature as mine Or would I simply find a shattered face, cracked like some piece of thin china, the lines running down from my eyes where tears had streaked over my cheeks and chin. How long would it take to mend that face? Would it ever be mended so that the cracks would disappear and not look like scars of

sadness?

Was I pretty? Could I ever be pretty? Did I

have a face that someone could love under this mask?

Could I ever want to be kissed and touched? Could I

dream and fantasize like Misty just had and find

myself in a romantic place?

Daddy used to tell me so. He would cup my

face in his hands and kiss the tip of my nose and say I

was blossoming and soon all of my mirrors would

reflect my beauty. When he spoke to me like that, I

felt I was in a fairy tale and maybe I could be

someone's princess. For a long time, he made me feel

like I was his special princess, but because of that had

my ability to love someone been crushed like a small

flower, smashed into the earth, fading, fading, dying

away like some distant star given a moment to twinkle

before it fell back into the darkness forever and ever? No, I didn't want to go home again. I had to

keep trying.

"I'll go back," I insisted.

"Okay," Doctor Marlowe said, "but if you

change your mind or have any problems, please don't

hesitate to stop and ask to go home. I don't want to