Daydream Girl
Maladaptive daydreaming or excessive daydreaming is a psychological disorder. Those afflicted indulge in extensive fantasy activity that replaces human interaction and/or interferes with academic, interpersonal, or vocational functioning.
Chapter 1
The Curse
Elaine
I don't feel the curse, not yet, just the awful, dawning agony that the person I love most in the world has been stolen away from me. Vanished to who knows where leaving me with a wound I can’t heal.
I want to hurt this miserable boy we rode here to save. Scream my rising tide of anger in his face because it is all his stupid fault that we are here in the first place.
I do. I scream like the Banshee of Inish Moira in the senseless ears of a pathetic young man and beat his toxified body with my fists till Oaken John pulls me off.
I am the opposite of my father, King Rhys, who seconds before placed his life in jeopardy by taking a moment to reassure the witless wretch that we were here for him. A second too long. The warlock, Regnar drove his wand in my father’s chest before disappearing with him in a cloud of black smoke. My father’s compassion became his downfall.
It takes the whole bloody Tireless Trio to hold me back before I finally relent and cry like a baby in Viv’s chiseled arms. Her voice reverberates lullaby-deep and soothing.
“Hush. I’ve got you, princess. Your fight isn’t with me.”
Her scar-embroidered, tawny skin smells like bergamot and lemon as she holds me tight even if it also has the faint metallic tang of blood. Viv’s fighting skills with a knife are as strong and as fierce as her hugs. You can’t escape from either if she’s got you in her sights.
She shushes me and coddles me while John and bear-built Gareth search the urine and blood-soaked hovel for clues of their King's disappearance and prepare the stupid boy for travel.
And I just cry and cry wondering where all these tears can come from. For a girl of middling height and lithe build, it seems like forty pounds of wetness keeps flowing from my eyes and nose. I am literally drowning in grief.
Elle
The motion sensor lights flicked on in the bathroom, illuminating Elle as she huddled on the shower floor. A violent shiver quivered across her naked body, but she remained oblivious of the cold water. Her pale lips spoke without sound, her hands blue with cold danced over her knees, but her large, brown eyes remained empty looking inwards at the story she was telling herself.
It wasn’t until her mother wrapped her in a dingy, white bath sheet that always reeked of mildew that she woke from the daydream and cried, if only for an unguarded second.
A voice fussed under the back of her head, right at ear level.
“Baby! You’re freezing! How long were you in there?” Her mother’s fingers squeezed, massaging the towel over her daughter to draw out the cold and the water and the daydreams, successfully soaking up two out of three.
Awake, Elle flushed with embarrassment as well as warmth. She wrapped her raw, naked body tighter with the towel.
“I’m fine.”
She wiped her eyes with the hard edge of the towel, wincing as she inhaled the mildew scent, knowing she’d smell faintly like mildew too. She pulled the towel closer, turning sideways, and edging towards the gap between her mother and the open doorway.
“Elle, look at me.”
She didn’t want to respond. She loathed her name. It wasn’t even a name - just a generic term for gender, French for girl or she. As if she lacked definition. Of course, it didn’t help that Jorge Valencia had nicknamed her Eel in third grade only to be replaced in sixth with Hell, as in looks like.
Her dad understood. He rechristened her, Elaine, meaning “shining light”. If she stilled her mind, she could still hear his lilting Welsh accent reciting Alfred Lord Tennyson’s poem: Elaine the fair, Elaine the loveable, Elaine, the lily maid of Astolat, high in her chamber up a tower to the east guarded the sacred shield of Lancelot.
Her mother’s voice popped the mental balloon floating in Elle’s mind. She’d have to spin that tale later, when her mom was gone. And she’d probably be gone soon.
“You were just getting in when I left for the Albertson’s an hour ago. Have you seen our water bill?” A petite woman, Mary still managed to block Elle’s exit.
“I don’t need a thousand dollar fine for over usage, not after two British Airways tickets, car rentals, funeral expenses, and everything else I paid for this summer. We’re barely scraping by.” Her mother spun into a lecture, like a cyclone picking up debris as it went along. Elle as usual stopped listening after the first sentence.
Using her four-inch height advantage to get free, she trudged past her mom into her bedroom. She didn’t even bother to get dressed, just slunk under the covers, wet, stinky towel and all.
“Sometimes, I think you are personally responsible for the drought.” Her mom’s lips attempted humor even if her eyes never quite made it there. She always ended lectures with a joke after she spent all her vitriol and was left with guilt.
But Elle didn’t want to play the game today.
Her mom perched herself on the edge of the bed and picked the loose threads off Elle’s comforter. The once mighty, red dragon printed across the blue blanket crouched timidly, leeched of his color and fierceness from over-washing.
“If you get dressed, we can go to Mission Valley. Buy you a new comforter at Macy’s. Maybe even be naughty. You love milkshakes and frings at Ruby’s.” Her mom snuck a glance at her watch. Elle saw.
“I’m fine. Your classroom needs you more than I do.” Elle’s mind chanted go away, go away like a magic spell. The pressure to get back to the dream made her brain ache. There was too much magic in her head that needed to be channeled.
“It can wait. I’d rather spend time with you.” Her mom brushed Elle’s wet hair from her face, already frizzing into a tangled rat’s nest.
“Can’t afford it. You just said so.”
“I have a coupon. We aren’t in abject poverty yet.” Her mom checked her watch again, her hands tugging at the loose threads, a collection of strings already amassing in her lap.
“I don’t need a new comforter,” Elle pulled the frayed edge tighter under her dimpled chin.
“You’ve had it since your eleventh birthday, don’t you think…”
“No! I don’t.” The grenade pin popped on her temper. “Stop taking every bloody thing that’s mine. My father’s dead! Don’t steal the only present of his I can wrap myself in.” She stopped for breath, the heat mounting in her cheeks and eyes turning her nuclear. She had always been a powder keg of emotions. Consequently, her nails dug deeper into the blanket to keep from striking out. “I’m losing him. My memories, his voice, everything. Now please, just leave me the hell alone. You won. He’ll never bother you again.” Elle bit her lip hard tasting salt and copper. She refused to cry anymore.
Naturally, her words hit their target, dead center as she meant them to, but the sight of her mom’s crumbling face and her delicate shoulders shaking with emotion broke through the darkness, if only momentarily, reminding her that she truly loved her mom. Elle squeezed her mom’s small frame against her own broader chest, her body playing its part, like muscle memory as her mom wetted her freckled shoulders with her tears, and Elle cooed automatic responses learned long ago in childhood.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped. It’s only been a month since he…” Her voice didn’t want to say the word again. “Just be patient with me, please. I’m just…” She couldn’t say cursed with darkness. Couldn’t explain the creeping numbness overwhelming her, making her indifferent to everything but the dreams. So, she said what she always did. “I’m sorry, and I love you!”
She pulled back and looked at her mom, the picture of guilt and misery on her doll-like face and black, button eyes. Elle had her father’s eyes.
“Honey, I love you too. I didn’t mean to upset you,” her mom pulled her back in, hugging the air out Elle’s lungs. “You’re all I have, baby.”
Her mom tickled the back of Elle’s neck making her squirm and stifle a giggle.
“Stop, mom.”
She wiggled and laughed some more, almost succumbing to a giggle fest before grabbing her mother’s hand. Her long fingers pressed down hard into her mother’s small palm. “Stop!” Elle turned to stare her down, her small mouth drawing a line she dared her mother not to cross.
Her mom uncurled her fingers and caressed the network of jagged white lines that scarred the back of her right hand as she softly said, “You certainly inherited his temper?”
Elle tucked her hand under the blanket.
Silence.
“I got an email from Mrs. Gorgonio. You’ve been daydreaming in class again.” Her mom pulled her phone from the back pocket of her capris as if to accuse Elle with the email but more to have something to do as her daughter’s silences were too loud and unnerving.
“I thought you liked English? You know, I can’t stand over you to make sure you’re doing your work. I have papers to grade and lessons to plan. You should be independent by now. Not off in the clouds.” She was spinning again.
“I do,” Elle tucked the blanket higher over her chin trying to disappear.
“Where’s your paper on King Arthur?” Her mom stood up and reached for Elle’s computer, jiggling the mouse, but Elle vaulted from her bed, tucking the slipping towel tighter around her chest as she tried to block the computer.
But her mom saw the empty Skype screen. She embraced Elle even tighter this time, her bobbed head the perfect height to lean atop Elle’s shoulders.
“I worry about you,” she said in her ear.
Elle started to pull forward again, but her mother’s grip was tighter than her will to be free.
“You’ve got so much potential.” Her mom leaned back taking in Elle’s washed out face. “I would really like to read your finished paper, baby.”
“Too bad it vanished into the mists of Avalon until Britain shall need it again,” Elle arched her eyebrows, her lips puckered into a mischievous smile as she turned and slipped back into bed.
“Too bad you can’t turn in sarcasm,” her mom said. She sat back on the edge of the bed and resumed pulling threads from the faded duvet and their conversation.
“Are you trying to take away all my father’s gifts today?” Elle said.
“I wouldn’t call it a gift, honey. More like a…”
“Curse!” She paused for effect meeting her mom’s gaze with her well-practiced hard stare. “Yours or mine?”
Her mom surrendered. Elle was not going to give quarter any time soon. Plus, the alarm went off on her phone, the playfully, obnoxious sound of a bicycle horn honking like a dying goose. Alarms were always going off on her mother’s phone. It jarred Elle’s nerves.
“Enough. I need to run to Office Depot and then my classroom. My ancient civilization charts are turning to dust.” She pulled one last thread. “But we are having a real conversation when I get back. You can’t dream away your senior year.” Her mom shoved her phone back in her pocket and locked eyes with Elle. “Your father wouldn’t want that.” She stood up.
Elle looked away at the mention of her father, diving towards dream land.
“My fierce darling, wake up.” She could hear her father’s voice, his Welsh accent was a lilting melody of verdant hills and valleys calling her back to the dream.
Unfortunately, her mom’s flat California accent broke through the dream wall. “And I expect to see you dressed when I get back.” She threw a t-shirt and shorts at Elle’s bed.
Title: Daydream Girl
Genre: Young Adult
Age Range: 14-35
Word Count: 82,317
Author Name: Kat Aragon - pseudonym for Katrina Gallegos
Why this project is a good fit?: It's two stories in one. Readers get both the fantasy aspect of Elle's daydream world as well as her struggle to fit into high school as she grieves the loss of her father. She's a social outcast who longs to be connected to someone.
The Hook: Elle must wake herself from the power of the daydreams and save herself before she completely isolates herself and pushes away the only friends and family she has left. But first she must acknowledge her father's death and the dark secret she'd rather bury instead of him.
Synopsis: Isolated, heart-broken, cursed. Rather like Tennyson’s tragic The Lady of Shalott or another awkward high school senior with frizzy hair and no social skills. Except, seventeen-year-old Elle Davies isolated herself in her own imagination, her father broke her heart, and she’s cursed by both her grief and Maladaptive Daydreaming, a severe psychological addiction as strong and enticing as drugs or alcohol. Except it’s free and no one can make her stop. No one but herself.
The unique format of the story gives readers two narratives paralleling between Elle’s trials and tribulations of high school and the fantasy story she’s telling herself. Unable to accept her father’s death, her fantasy avatar, the brave and bold Princess Elaine, embarks on a perilous quest to save him from the evil warlock, Regnar, and cure herself of the poison darkening her heart and stealing her memories. These fantasies mirror what’s happening in the real world as the daydreams and her overwhelming grief bleed in and out of each story. Elle pushes away her friends and mother, only briefly connecting with her new teacher, Mr. Taylor, the metaphorical white knight and fellow victim of grief. But a jealous bully threatens their friendship and her tentative hold on reality.
Target Audience: Young adults, New Adults, Anybody feeling isolated and longing for connection.
Personality/Writing Style: An extroverted introvert, I love books and movies and immerse myself in them. Once I feel comfortable with someone, I can be the life of the party. I study people and history. I'm great with kids and teens after teaching middle school and high school English and history. My writing style mixes reality and fantasy and has a lyrical quality to it.
Like/Hobbies: I love dancing in the living room with my kids and singing karaoke with my husband. I like to run and have completed two 1/2 marathons. My new, old-school, white roller skates make me deliriously happy. I am obsessed with Hamilton. My brain spits out random and weird facts from history. I have a Masters Degree in Film Studies from University College Dublin. I write screenplays and have been a semi-finalist in the international and prestigious Shore Scripts Screenwriting Competition. I love to travel. But mostly, I love to write and retreat to my closet a.k.a. the Kat Kave to work on my novels and screenplays.
Hometown: Indio, CA.