My breath comes in short, ragged gasps. I glance up at my reflection and flinch at how pale my dark skin looks. My forest green eyes seem to take over my entire face. A knot has formed in my throat that won’t disappear and, my hand can’t quit shaking. 
A quick knock on my bedroom door makes me jump into reality.
“Come in” I call. Straightening my back automatically, I try to slow my heartbeat.
“Are you dressed darling?” A soft voice asks. My mother floats into the room with the grace of an angel.
“Yes mamá.” I say, turning towards her. “But could you do my hair?” I ask quietly, suddenly afraid I might cry.
“Of course” she says, her fingers already buried in my hair.
I peer up at her through the mirror. Dark hair, peppered with streaks of white. A kind face that only twisted into anger when she was ranting about social justice.
“We are all equal!” She would scream at the TV. however her face is not twisted now. It is somber and concentrated on the pieces of my hair.
My mother bends down to my level and rotates my chair towards her. “You look wonderful mi hija.” she croons.
I break, “I can’t do this mamá.” I mutter to the ground. My voice breaks towards the end and I know I’m made. She tilts my chin upwards and looks me in the eyes.
“No tears, you are woman now, you will not falter.” I clutch her hand and try to follow her orders.
You will remain strong. you will remain strong. I repeat in my head until the threat of tears evaporates.
“Is she ready Rita?” My father calls from the other side of the door. His Irish accent heavy, of course he has been living in Mexico for 20 years now. But my father stubbornly refuses to give up his accent.
My mother gives me one final look of encouragement and turned towards the door with a magically appearing smile.
“Come in and see for yourself” She takes my hand and cues me to stand.
My father makes his grand entrance into my room, an excited look on his face. My mother twists my hand and I begin to twirl. My dark red dress billows out around me. Of course I will only be wearing this dress for the next couple of hours. Once the ceremony and festivities are done my journey will begin and this dress will be long gone. My entire world will be long gone. Until I find them, my soulmate.
“You look absolutely stunning Tara.” He gushes with the threat of tears in his eyes.
“Thank you Dadaí,” I say. I walk towards him and he props out his elbow for me. We walk through the dark hall adorned with pictures of our ancestors. Redheads and woman with unibrows stare down at me. As the two sets of stairs in our foray come into view I notice the decorations. The delicately carved wooden railing is garnished with deep red and gold ribbons. New  crimson velvet curtains hand from the tall windows, blocking out what is now just celestial light. Wherever possible Starya, the maid, has added gold.
My father and I stop at the top of the staircase and the shaman across from us nods. She is swathed in a crimson cloak, her cane protruding from one sleeve. When we were young, my best friend Ignacio and I would flock to her knee to hear all of her wild stories. I wasn’t until I was a teen that I learned what a major job for a shaman is, then my fascination with her dwindled. As of right now, I kind of hate her, she will seal my destiny. My legs tremble as the three of us descend towards the mass of people huddled on the first floor. As we reach the foot of the stairs we are reunited with the shaman and she steps towards us to start the ceremony.
For a fleeting my instincts consume me, begging me to flee. Flee to the boy, almost man, standing in the corner. Tell him that I love him, that I’ll risk everything to run away with him. To escape the fate that is about to tear us apart. 
But my feet stay cemented to the ground. My father gently pries my hand from his arm, I didn’t even realize I was latched onto him. I stand alone now, surrounded by friends and family. Even some of my father’s relatives are here, but I only see the shaman.
We stand in a circle made of salt; symbols specific to this ceremony, of peace and love are painted on the floor below us. I clench my jaw as she turns sharply towards a golden cauldron situated on a table between the feet of the two staircases. I gasp when she plunges her left hand into the liquid. The instant her hand touches the surface I see two of her, the other a skeletal version of her shining through her cloak. The candles in the chandelier start to emanate rainbows. I can’t think straight and all of the sudden the shaman’s right hand encloses my left forearm.
“Tara Manuel Healey,” She says but the words don’t leave her mouth, instead they echo in my mind. “Tonight at the strike of 4 you become of age.” She says. But then, I try not to focus on her words too much. Instead I wonder how hard this ceremony is for people who don’t have the exact time of their birth.
The shaman slowing brings her arm out of the pot. It is coated in a thick gold liquid that drips all over the marble floor. She starts to chant words of old, older than mankind and the earth. With her her words the syrupy liquid begins to glow. Then she turns toward me, we merely inches apart. Her dead eyes, peering through the empty eye sockets of her skull, bore into my green ones. Her right hand switches its grip to my left forearm and her nails dig into my skin.
She lifts her left hand up to left side of my chest. Her chants take on an increased fervor, and a chorus of unknown voices join her. I feel the need to puke, and I’m sweating despite the cool aura around me.
Her hand makes contact with my dress, right over my heart. In the distance I hear the clock strike four. My back arches and I lose contact with the floor. Then nothing exists, only the images I see.
A boy, around my age. He’s got golden hair and deep brown eyes. He’s laughing with his friends in a cafeteria. Shifting my focus I notice that the writing on the wall behind him is in a foreign language. But for some reason I can understand what it means and that it’s written in Polish. The text gives me the name of the academy he is in.
Then her hand is gone. I come back to reality, gasping for breath. I drop from the air onto my knees. My entire body is shaking, but no one comes to my aid. Infact it seems as if the entire room is holding its breath. Waiting to see what the results are. Whether or not I will be a still loved, but shunned gay. Because once you know your soulmate, there is no going back.
“I found him.” I  breathe. I look down at my hands and lift my left wrist. Scrolled in black ink is one word, or rather a name: Aureli