There are No Coincidences - A novel (?)

PROLOGUE

What is it about near-death experiences that make you transform into a crystal-collecting, meditating, proponent of the universe and all its divine power? 

Living a life void of tragedy, renders you a believer in coincidence, unencumbered by true struggle or strife. The thing about naivete is that to have it in your possession, is to be unaware of its existence; It’s something you can only appreciate-if not miss-in the past tense. 

How little I knew of my eventual fate when I lay awake at night in my twin bed at the tender age of 15, the faded glow-in-the-dark stars plastered across my ceiling staring back at me mockingly, as I wished on every last one of them to be older, wiser…

10 years, one car accident, and a “mild” sexual assault later, at times I’d give anything to have even just one more day of the unbridled optimism one can only have from lack of lived experience. 

My name is Eleanor Wingham, and I don’t quite know who the f**k I am. 

CHAPTER ONE

Who is Eleanor Wingham? Who bloody cares, for all that matters. She is me, and I’m not even sure I’d care to know. Alas, I invite you to tread carefully into the relentless-at times tumultuous-stream that is my consciousness.  

Twenty-six years old, or young depending on which way you look at it, and despite what I’d been led to believe throughout my most formative years, you’re more or less faking it till you make it at this age. Hell, you’re not even sure what “it” is, and I'd be damned if anyone else in this game of life knew either. 

Some might even say I’m too young to have seen the things I've seen, or lived to tell the tales I’m about to unabashedly pour onto these pages. I think it’s all subjective, really. A very large part of me believes the overall gist of our life stories are predetermined from the first breath we take. My celestial contract, so to speak, just happened to have “EXPEDITE TRAGEDY” stamped on the front. 

On a good day, I’d say the unfortunate events of my existence lent me exceptional wit, appreciation of satire, and a promising future in stand-up comedy. In my darker moments, I’d gripe and wax poetic about the irreparable damage done at the hands of what one could only call trauma. 

Oh my god, Eleanor, can you get a grip? I’m asking myself, so you don’t have to. 

To be continued…