The Rose Colored Prince: A Modern Fairytale Based on True Events

By Priscilla Salcedo

Amidst the chaos, one woman's journey unveils the bittersweet truth behind the perfect love she thought she found.

In the midst of a worldwide pandemic, The Rose Colored Prince tells the true story of Patricia, a young woman whose belief in the magic of love is put to the ultimate test. When Pa

• Language: English
• Publisher: Crystal Things Heal LLC
• Release date: Jun 6, 2024
• ISBN: 9798869394996

Book preview

1

Twilight of Trauma

It was 7 am, and I was nearing the end of my 12-hour shift. Twelve long hours of being on my feet, walking around the emergency department, helping people check in and out. This was my routine. I worked the graveyard shift at the registration desk of the emergency room in one of the busiest hospitals in southern New Jersey. Although we weren't a level one trauma center, we were the only hospital for miles around. This meant we often had to handle serious trauma cases anyway. During those long hours, I was constantly moving around the emergency room, dealing with the busy atmosphere, and making sure all the paperwork was in order. While doctors and nurses were busy saving lives, I was focused on the administrative side of things, making sure every patient was properly registered and accounted for. This was my daily life, where I dealt with the fast-paced flow of patients coming in and out. Our hospital might not have had the highest trauma designation, but it played a crucial role in the region. We were often the last hope for many people in desperate need, and I was the first and final person they encountered.

My work in the emergency department was like a rollercoaster ride, a heart-pounding mix of love and frustration. The thrill of the job was addictive, especially when the ambulance doors burst open, and a rush of chaos and adrenaline surged in. In those moments, there was no time for second-guessing, only split-second decisions. The ER's high-speed, high-stress environment was my drug of choice. Even though I played what might seem like a small role, I relished being part of a life-saving team. Before I settled into the registration department, I was a patient care tech, occasionally jumping in as an extra pair of hands when emergency cases poured in. My certifications were hospital-wide, allowing me to switch departments for a better paycheck. But the desk job, as comfortable as it was on my wallet, left my mind hungry for more. Thankfully, my managers recognized my need for action and let me stay in the thick of it, where every moment counted. It was a decision I'd forever appreciate.

The emergency room was like a double-edged sword for me. On one hand, I craved the adrenaline rush that came with the job. On the other hand, there were aspects I couldn't stand, like the morale. It's a peculiar thing in the ER. When you're faced with traumatic situations day in and day out, especially during the graveyard shift, you start to become desensitized. It's like a troupe of lifeless robots drifting through the hallways, methodically tending to one task after another. You have to numb yourself to the constant proximity to death; it's a survival mechanism. Without that emotional shield, you'd risk losing your sanity.

But there's a unique camaraderie among the staff and EMTs that's hard to find anywhere else. Only they truly understand what you witness and endure on a daily basis. They get what it feels like to place an ID bracelet on a lifeless body or to guide a family to the dreaded quiet room where they're about to receive the worst news of their lives. They know the rush of adrenaline when you take turns performing CPR, hoping for a miraculous turn of events. They just know. It's a love-hate relationship, every second of it.

Life during this period was a whirlwind of contradictory emotions. By day, I served as a live-in caregiver for a remarkable 28-year-old woman with cerebral palsy. I adored my job and the family I worked for. They embraced me as one of their own, a gesture for which I remain deeply grateful. However, the living situation was another story entirely. As much as I cherished this family and my role, I couldn't help but despise my living situation. It was a constant battle with the lack of freedom and the feeling of walking on eggshells. The omnipresent security cameras only heightened this sense of confinement. I yearned for the simple pleasure of roaming naked in my own living space. Freely strolling the halls of the house without a care, without my every move being recorded. I perpetually felt as if I were under surveillance, which left me confined to the one place I felt safe – my bedroom, the only room free from prying eyes.

Nonetheless, it was a significant improvement over living back home. I made my escape from my parents' house at the age of 17, vowing never to return. My relationship with my parents, particularly my mother, had been strained at best. When my older sister Laurie packed her bags and left abruptly at the age of 18, something inside my mother snapped. It was a piece of her that I'm uncertain will ever be made whole again. She felt abandoned and betrayed, yet she couldn't direct her anger at the one person she truly wanted to - Laurie. That left only me as the target for her frustrations. As I inched closer to turning 18, things went from bad to worse, almost as if my mere existence was a daily trigger for conflict. What had once been nagging and arguments escalated into daily physical confrontations. After a while, the physical pain became numbing; it was the emotional trauma I needed to escape, fearing it might inflict permanent damage. I had no choice but to leave.

I had also taken a break from college, a whole year off, because I realized I lacked passion for what I was studying. My chosen path was to become a special education teacher. I was merely a few classes away from obtaining my associate's degree, yet the moment I stepped into that elementary school for my internship, an overwhelming feeling of unease washed over me. The thought of doing this for the rest of my life, or even for the duration of the internship, seemed unbearable. I needed to ask myself a profound question: was I pursuing higher education because it was my genuine desire, or was I merely following a script that society had penned for me? The idea of going to college just for the sake of it, to fulfill an expectation, was becoming less and less appealing. What weighed even more heavily on my mind was the financial burden; I knew that one day, I'd have to pay back all that money I'd invested. It was safe to say that this period was one of the lowest points in my life. I felt trapped, lacking a sense of purpose, and enveloped in a cloud of relentless uncertainty. The weight of these circumstances bore down on my shoulders, and I longed for the clarity and direction that seemed to elude me.

As I completed my shift and ventured out into the early morning light, a particular idea began to take root in my mind. Tomorrow marked my day off, and I couldn't think of a more opportune moment to seek the answers that had been eluding me. The spark of inspiration that ignited within me was simple yet intriguing—I would pay a visit to a psychic. It might sound unorthodox to some, but in that juncture of my life, it felt like a glimmer of hope. Psychic abilities were not unfamiliar within my family, including within myself. Nevertheless, I yearned for a fresh perspective, someone who could provide me with unfiltered insights and guidance, free from any judgment or bias. I had reached a stage in my life where I desperately sought even the slightest inkling of direction, a signpost pointing me toward a path brimming with fulfillment and purpose.

I had made up my mind. Tomorrow, I would set out on this enigmatic journey, my heart open to whatever revelations lay in store. The prospect of connecting with someone who possessed a profound understanding of life's complexities offered a glimmer of hope, something I was desperately seeking. As I made my way home, a mix of excitement and a touch of apprehension danced within me. Engaging a new psychic was always a bit of a gamble. You hoped that the person you chose had your best interests at heart, genuinely wanting to help rather than simply making a quick buck. Those who relied on walk-ins often came across as rather generic, while the pricier ones understood the value of building long-lasting relationships with their clients. The gamble here was whether, even in my desperate situation, I possessed the discernment to distinguish the genuine from the charlatans. Nevertheless, I couldn't help but ponder what the psychic might reveal and whether their words had the potential to chart a new course for my life. It was a leap of faith, a wager on the possibility of discovering answers in the most unexpected of places.

Arriving back home, I perched on the edge of my bed, a tangible sense of anticipation enveloping the room. What would this session bring? Would it be an uplifting experience, a harsh reality check, or perhaps a blend of both? I mulled over the myriad possibilities, contemplating the diverse topics the psychic might delve into. At this point, I was open to anything, no matter how small. I recognized that this was merely a baby step, but it represented a crucial move away from the stagnation that had gripped me for far too long. It was an opportunity to gain insight into my own aspirations, hopes, and the path leading to a more fulfilling life. It also held the promise of constructive criticism, a chance to redirect me away from what no longer served my best interests.

With that decision solidified, I extinguished the lights, allowing the darkness to envelop me as I settled into a restful sleep. The following day held the promise of exploration, discovery, and the potential to reshape my life's trajectory. As I drifted off into dreams tinged with anticipation, I couldn't help but feel a glimmer of hope flicker within me—a flame ready to be reignited by the unknown paths that awaited me in the world of the psychic.

2

Visions and Velvet

It is Sunday afternoon, and I am off from both of my jobs. There was a well-known psychic named Mary-Anne located on the Main Street of the mom and pop shops. I called her and asked if she had availability for today, and lucky for me, she did. I pulled up to the side parking in front of a large psychic reading sign. Her office was on the second floor of an orange building located above a salon. As I walked up the blue carpeted stairs, I wondered what she could possibly say. What direction was my life going in? Where would I live next—or was I bound to being a live-in nanny for the rest of my life? And of course, the most burning question of all, when was my prince charming coming?

I knocked on the weathered wooden door, my knuckles betraying my nervousness as they rapped three times. After a brief moment, the door creaked open, revealing a man who introduced himself as Maryann's husband. He extended a warm welcome, ushering me inside. As I crossed the threshold, I found myself in what appeared to be a one-bedroom apartment. A curtain separated the living room, where their bed was discreetly tucked away, while the bedroom doubled as an office space. Maryann's husband informed me that she was currently attending to another client but would be available shortly. With a friendly gesture, he invited me to take a seat on the sleek black leather couches in the main room.

Immediately, a black cat sauntered my way. I had never been particularly fond of cats, and this one not only approached me but decided to play with my feet. I mustered an awkward smile in the direction of the kind gentleman sitting across from me, all the while attempting to subtly move my feet away from the persistent feline. In an effort to strike up a conversation, he inquired about my background and where I hailed from. Meanwhile, my internal monologue consisted of fervent wishes that this amiable man would somehow read my discomfort and coax the playful cat, who was now nibbling at my toes, away from me.

After what seemed like an eternity, Maryann finally opened her door and bid her previous client farewell. The woman had a blotchy face, a telltale sign of tears shed during their session. My heart skipped a beat as I realized it was now my turn. Maryann extended her arms in a welcoming gesture. Panic washed over me briefly; Maryann was a hugger, another thing I wasn't particularly fond of. Nonetheless, I couldn't bring myself to be impolite, so I awkwardly reciprocated her hug. She gently closed the door behind us, instructing me to take a seat, relax, and close my eyes. Her soothing voice guided me to think of three wishes I hoped would come true this year: a new job, a new home, and a man in my life.

Maryann then gently held my hands for a few moments, as if tuning into some hidden energy source. She instructed me to open my eyes, and after a brief pause, she began to speak. You're not currently doing the type of work you're meant to do, she declared, hitting the nail on the head with wish number one. Her insight was uncanny; she even knew about my recent hiatus from school. Maryann, I had to admit, was impressively perceptive. However, she lost me with her next statement: Insure your hands. What on earth did that mean? I was utterly baffled. She went on to explain that my hands would play a crucial role in the work I was destined for, that they would become instrumental in helping many people, marking a significant turning point in my life.

Maryann then shifted her focus and shared her perception that I lived with a family that wasn't truly my own. Her advice caught my attention; she suggested I contemplate living alone. She explained that I was an empath and needed solitude to recharge my energy. I couldn't agree more, Maryann, but when could I possibly make that happen? She went on to predict that I would be living on my own within a year from our meeting. Given my current financial situation, this seemed like a daunting prospect, but I decided to place my trust in Maryann's insights. Now, it was time to tackle wish number three – the subject of a man. If Maryann had anything to say about this, I was more than ready to listen.

There's a man that you will meet very soon at work. Wow, he is quite handsome. He is very tall, has caramel skin, is very built with broad shoulders and high cheekbones. Maryann had just described my ideal type of man to a tee. She even nailed wish number three. At this point, I was all ears. He wears a uniform, she added. I hadn't mentioned my workplace, so this was intriguing. Maryann had certainly piqued my interest with her description. Come to me, future Papi. You need to wear a bright-colored shirt at work, she continued. Her words interrupted my fantastical daydreams. Considering that ninety-five percent of my clothes were black, this meant a shopping spree was in my