by Cynthia Tavares

Created on: March 06, 2010   Last Updated: March 07, 2010

The "Other" Me

Everyone has a story, and only they can tell it best ~ Me

Chapter 1

Out with the old

I’ll go slow, so I don’t lose you, but you are going to have to pay attention.

I was born August 10, 1964. My mother was a hippie, and my father, a returning war Veteran who had served in Viet Nam. How those two planets ever collided, is still beyond me. It lasted just 5 short years and my father raised us three girls, while our mother partook in a myriad of lovers and her craving for adventure that only several rails of cocaine could cure.

During their short union, they got along enough times to create myself, and my sisters Melissa and Lauren. Our parents have very little to do with my story. Moving on:

My name was Cynthia Rafael. I would answer to “Cindy”and “Cyn”.My full name “Cynthia”, was used in only the direst of occasions and only when I was in some kind of trouble.

A little bit of history to catch you up on where my story begins: I graduated from High School in 1983. I was the third in my class. It was a college prep high school and I had saturated myself with extracurricular activities such as being the editor of our high school paper, a participant in the annual Academic Decathlons, and was the Captain of our softball team all four years running.

Yet despite being prepped and ready for college, in December 1983, I chose to join the US Navy instead. I served as a Master At Arms.

On February 16th, 1986, I gave birth to my beautiful son; Jason.

In 1991, after 8 good years of service, and as an E-6 (A first class Petty Officer), I was honorably discharged from the Navy.

 My sister Melissa and I were extremely close. She and her family were residing in a little town called Janesville, Ca. Jason and I had decided that we wanted to give the small town a try, to be near her and my nieces. Jason and I moved from the crime infected city of Stockton, Ca, and quickly adjusted to being small town folk.

In 1997, I met the man that I would call my husband. His name was Carl and was a good, honest and kind man. He was an officer of the State, and a Captain for our volunteer fire department.  In April 1998, we bought our first house together. In January 1999, we were married. In February 2000, I was killed.

This is where it gets a little strange, and will certainly challenge everything that you may have believed happened after you die. I don’t know if there are others like me. Maybe this is an extraordinary

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