"I'm going to count backwards. When I get to 1, you'll wake up and remain calm," my mother says softly. "You'll be still."

At the moment, I'm in my safe place, floating on gentle, topaz-blue waves at Kalogria Beach, in Patras, Greece. Sunbathing, I'm surrounded by stunning mountaintops dotted with green umbrella pine as far as the eye can see. Heron fly overhead, tipping their feathers as if to say hello.

The sky is clear and I'm happy.

"...3, 2, 1...Wake up, Myrine," my mom finishes.

What you have to understand is that we are a band of gypsies. Traveling from place to place, each one of us has a knack for something strange that draws crowds and coins wherever we go.

My mother's talent?

She's a hypnotist.

She's never malicious about it, either. No one gets naked on her stage and barks like a dog.

No, her talents are the healing kind. She's known for helping those with mental illness, believe it or not. People suffering from depression, anxiety, OCD, even addiction issues, seek her help. And she gives it to them, for a small fee, of course.

My father, on the other hand, is a sword-swallower. No blade is too sharp. His act gives me the chills every time I see it.

Then there's my brother, Ajax, and his venomous snakes. Scales and deadly toxins be damned, he doesn't blink an eye at his lethal, reptilian friends.

Yeah, ah...no way. They're not for me.

Not to be outdone, there's also my sister, Diana. Beautiful as the fire she spins on her batons, I can't hold a candle to her.

In this family, I'm the true misfit. I've yet to find my inner talent of fearless wonder and amazement.

Which is why when I wake up from my trance, lying in a cedar-lined coffin, covered up to my neck in Madagascar Hissing Cockroaches, I freak.

My brother is trying to be encouraging. "Come on, Myrine, you can do this. Just stay still. You got this."

While I appreciate Ajax's coaching, it's Diana who sends me over the edge.

"Just ignore them, Myrine. Mom has tweezers in her make-up bag if one crawls into your ear."

Dad's holding my hand at the edge of the coffin but I still manage to jump over the side without missing a beat.

I can feel them in my bra and at the back of my shorts. As one tries to make it's way past my waste-band, the tears start pouring.

"Get them off of me! GET THEM OFF OF MEEE!" I shriek.

"Myrine," my mom yells "Myrine, stand still. Just get used to the feel of them moving on you. You can do this."

When it's obvious that I can't, she reaches out to hold me against the wall and puts me back into a trance.

As I go under, I think to myself, "So much for that. I wonder what they'll do to me next."