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Prologue: April 15, 1992

April fifteenth, nineteen ninety-two, was supposed to be a happy day. And it was… But it turned into a nightmare for Nicholas Jameson. It wasn't until several weeks later that he began to hate April fifteenth, nineteen ninety-two, but he hated it, nonetheless.

It was the day I was born.

My name is Lila Jameson, named after my grandmother on my mother's side. I'm the second child, after my older brother, Nicholas Jr.-or Nick, as I like to call him-in a family of three. My mother died two years ago from Leukemia. She was thirty-eight years old. She died on my fifteenth birthday, which only made my father hate the day even more.

My name is Lila Jameson. I was born deaf; a disgrace to my father. I was the first genetic defect in his family's bloodline dating back to the early fifteenth century and he regrets my existence. He denies it. He says he loves me, but I know it's an act. As a child, he paid for me to take speech classes, to make it less noticeable to outsiders. Then, I thought of it as a privilege because it was expensive, and I learned quickly, advancing to the point where I was top of my speech class in high school. Now, I realize that it was all to cover up my problem. To hide what I was. As a child, I realized that not many deaf people could speak as fluently as I could, so I used that privilege my father had bought for me to the best of my ability and advanced in it. At seventeen, I know English, French, Spanish, American Sign Language, and am learning Italian.

When I was in the ninth grade, during one of my special classes, I was introduced to new technology that was not being offered as a treatment yet. My dad agreed to let them test it on me. It seems that my left ear has some minimal hearing in it, but I can't hear anything without an aid. They tested this technology on me, which helped me learn faster than I had been before. I know what voices sound like, but I've only used the product a few times in my life, and it was always my doctor's voice I heard-nothing more. After a few months, they finished their testing and I never used an aide again. My father didn't want to waste the money on something that I could do without.

I have never heard my mother's voice. I have never heard a laugh. I have never heard music.

People look at me with sympathy-faked-and pity. But how can you miss something you never knew? I'm not sad for myself. I'm sad for my father, that he thinks so little of me. That I cannot be what he wants me to be. I'm sad that my mother never got to see me graduate, which I did this year, having skipped the tenth grade.

But I'm more happy than sad. I'm happy that I have a home. I'm happy that I have friends-true friends. Someone with a disability only has true friends, when they're not rich. True, the only friends I have are my brother and my cat, Butterfinger-named after my favorite candy-but it's better than having just my dad. I love my dad. And I will make him proud of me one day. I've tried excelling in his line of work: art. I've won many contests and have a few pieces in small galleries across the States. But that hasn't seemed to work.

My dad owns the local branch of a big arts supplies company-I won't say which one, to avoid confusion. He gets paid a fair amount of money, but with only one parent bringing in an income, we're by no means rich. My brother attends the local college-he's twenty-one. I have begun my freshman year at an expensive Christian College that's two hours south east from home. I chose to live on campus. I wanted to get away. Thankfully, I was allowed to bring Butterfinger, as long as no one complains about her. No one has yet.  My first step-aside from school stuff-was to find a church to attend, then I needed to find a job. Nick and I are the only ones who go to church anymore in our family. Dad works all the time, spending all day every day in his office downtown. Nick learned to cook, real fast. He was more of a father to me than my father was.

I found a job at a movie theater across the street from campus. I work the ticket booth where your tickets get ripped in half and I direct them down which hallway. I also clean the bathrooms. I get paid minimum wage. I could get into movies for free, but I don't. I've never seen a movie. I don't intend to. I've never been on a date either. But I don't care. If God wants me to have a boyfriend, then someone will ask me out. For now, I work at a career. At the moment, I'm taking classes to become a book writer, and double majoring in visual arts, with my painting. I'm working on an autobiography, a.k.a. a diary, but I like to write fiction. I also like to read books. My entire bookshelf in my dorm is filled.

I live in my dorm by myself. My dorm mate when I arrived was allergic to cats, so she transferred rooms, but I never got another room mate reassigned to me. So I live alone, unless you count the rest of the girls on my floor.

My name is Lila Jameson, and this is where my real story begins.