Chapter Text
When I stepped out into the bright sunlight from the darkness of the movies, I only had two things on my mind: Richard Molyneaux and a ride home.
Being away at the movies is the closest I can get to an art museum. I love art. One day my dream is to do a world tour of all the art museums I’ve read about in books or seen on the big screen. When I am looking at art, the entire world just melts away. Port Charles is what you may call simple. We don’t have much, just the bare necessities. We barely have a post office much less a real art gallery. Even if we did, I wouldn’t go with anyone. I’ve realized that in order to truly appreciate art, you have to do it alone. That way you can have your own interpretation of the piece. No one I know truly understands art. All they would see is brush strokes, but I would like to believe that I am able to see beyond those. I would like to believe that I’m able to see the underlying humanity of a painting - why the artist painted that particular piece. My best friend Cameron, tries to understand which is more than anyone else I know.
I had gotten so caught up in dreaming of what could be, I failed to realize I was almost home. I walked the entire time alone. Greasers can’t walk alone too much because that means trouble is just waiting to happen. I’ve seen it too much. Most recently, there was a serial killer on the loose targeting people close to me so I’m always extra cautious.
I’ve never been out of my hometown of Port Charles, New York before. I wonder what it would be like. I don’t know anyone that has left this town. Everyone here gets stuck here for life. I guess you could say that’s why I am so hell-bent on daydreaming what could be - because I wanna be the person that changes the narrative. I don’t have many reasons to stay here. I’m an only child and even though I have a parent, my father Nikolas, I’ve been alone most of my life. He was never around and when he was around, he acted as if I didn’t exist.
The amount of people I can trust I can count on one hand. There is my grandmother and my best friend, Cameron. That’s it. That’s all I need. Cameron could have been a soccer star. He had a ticket out but he stayed for me. It drives Cameron nuts that I kinda go off on my own but it’s better for everyone if I stay that way. If you were to stereotype me and Cameron, Cameron is the boy next door rule follower while people may look at me and see a loner. A very pretty loner at that. I have been told I have a certain charm. I’ve been told I’m a movie- star kind of handsome. The kind that people stop on the street to watch go by. My name is Spencer Cassadine and I know there’s so much more to life than what is in front of me. There has to be more than this provincial life and I am going to make sure to live it and live it to the fullest. My philosophy: better I would rather take a risk and see the outcome then to never even try. I also like to escape into my books whenever I can, as often as I can but unlike art and words on a page, Port Charles is somewhere where you can never stop and take a breath. No day is alike.
My home hasn’t always been this way. I’ve been told that Port Charles was a different town many years ago, a time where we could all agree but somewhere down the line we lost our way. Once the higher ups realized how dysfunctional our city had become, they made the conscious effort to split the town in two. The money went west and the Grease went to the east with a boat separating the two. The Socs, as we like to call them, because they live like socialites, live on the west side in a place called Wyndemere. Essentially, it’s their own secluded island with the only form of transportation to get to the mainland is by boat. I’ve never seen Wyndemere, only the looming shadows of silhouettes on the horizon. It’s some kind of fairytale land. When I was a little kid, I wished that me and my dad lived like the Socs because they have everything you could ever want: the cars, the reputation and of course the money. But that is not our reality. We’re greasers who live on the east side and it's frowned upon to even get in close proximity with the Socs so if you’re looking forward to me becoming friends with a Soc, think again. All the girls are pretty and all the guys are mean. They are the type that when you think of the white picket fence stereotype, that is who you think of.
The East Side? The story isn’t the same. The East Side is cluttered with run down buildings with broken window panes. There are cars that no longer run just sitting idle in the yard. The east side is falling apart, neglected by the leaders of the town but the west side is picture perfect.
My best friend Cameron, I told you about earlier? Just a few weeks ago, he was in the wrong place at the wrong time and some Socs beat the living hell out of him and he hasn’t been the same since and one thing you should know about me is if someone looks at someone I care about the wrong way, I am not afraid to get a little bloodied and bruised.
This town holds everyone down. There is judgment everywhere and people think they know you by how you wear your hair or the clothes you wear. If you are not born with money to your name, you are born into despair and other people will make sure you stay where you belong but that will not be me. I am not going to live my life here. Someday I wish to fall in love, hopefully with someone who appreciates fine art just as I do and when that day comes, I will be the happiest I have ever been away from this town living the life I have always wanted with the love of my life.