Disclaimer: I do not own any of the images in this book.
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Believe it or not, I used to be a very sweet little girl.

Not to long ago, I was the type of girl who would pick flowers from the front garden to put in my hair. I would enjoy the smell of baked cookies clouding small cottage kitchens. I would eat mountains of cotton candy at the local fair. And the faris-wheel was always my favorite.

I used to do what I was told. I used to be a typical school girl. Handed in every piece of homework on time. Played in the right places. Made the right friends.

But that was until one day when I had just turned thirteen.

The change wasn't slick or lighthearted. It didn't ease me into this unforgiving state of mind that abandoned true trusting. Instead it came all at once, shaking my very core. It was like a car speeding around the corner of a back country lane. Or a concentrated shot of espresso. A flash flood of hurricanes invading blue skies.

My father returned home from work, and I thought nothing of it. Nothing was out of place. I hugged him, like I did every evening, greeting him with a childish smile. Never did I notice his face was abnormally glum. There was a sadness behind the smile he returned.

Late that night, I was having trouble sleeping. My parents were shouting across the dining room table and the sound ringed into my bedroom. Silently, I pressed my ear to my bedroom door and the voices became clearer. After a few minuets of listening with my heart thumping in my chest, I had deciphered the topic of conversation.

My dad had been fired from his job.

As a small thirteen year old, the news sent a hot tear rolling down my cheek. I stifled my sobs and crawled back into bed as if I heard nothing. I wanted to forget about ever hearing those petrifying words.

The next weeks brought out the worst in my father. The drinking started and never stopped. Not for months. Months and months on end. It was the most agonizing time of my life, yet I was so young.

The alcohol engulfed his body and drowned out normal thoughts. It brought out a burning violence in him. One I had never seen before. My father was kind at heart. But the bottles of scotch and whisky were poison that suffocated the man my father was. He was no longer himself, I refused to believe he was the same person.

The man that took me our local bakery for maple-blueberry cupcakes every Saturday was not the same man who left scars burned into my fair skin.

This new man bruised me limb from limb. He was ruthless and held no sympathy. The red marks he left on my exterior resembled poison apples. The bruises he imprinted on my face were dark enough to be storm clouds. The tears he triggered could flood a river.

I became prisoner to a place I once called home. The walls that used to make me feel safe gave me nightmares. He took everything from me with no remorse. He shattered my childhood to jarred pieces.

But the worst thing was, no matter how much he hit me, no matter how much he beat my mother in front of my eyes, it never compared to the agony of the hole he left in my heart.

This. This was what my father turned out to be.

A man I looked up to so much through out my life turned into a vicious monster. The knowledge left a gaping crater right in the center of my heart. And it never healed. Not for a very long time. Truthfully, I just needed the right person to come and take his place.

After six months of my mother and I living in fear, cramped in my bedroom corner, we finally made a break out.

My father had finished the last of his scotch bottle. The house was dry of anything for him to drink. In a heated rage, he began shouting. Every fiber in my body tensed and I became apprehensive. My mother cradled me in her arms in a protective manner.

But he never stormed in. Instead, we heard the slam of the front door as he exited the house, most likely to a liquor store for a stock up. A shaky breath escaped my lips as I relaxed. We waited a few minuets in complete silence before my mother instantly flew upright.

I watched in confusion as she rummaged through my closet, which was filled to the brim with my broken belongings. A few seconds later, she pulled out a suit case that appeared to have been pre-packed. My mother rushed over to me, cupping both cheeks with her hands.

"Darling girl, we are leaving and never coming back. I have stolen a little bit of money we stashed in the kitchen cupboard to buy us train tickets. We are boarding the next train out of this town." She told me her eyes glassed over as she was on the brink of tears.

"But what about dad?" I asked in a weak tone. Even I didn't recognize my voice at the time. I opened my mouth very rarely during those months. I had learnt quickly that speaking was prohibited. My mother whipped a tear from her waterline while gently grazing my cheek with her finger.

"We have to leave him here. He can't come with us." She muttered. I nodded and blinked back tears. Of course I knew he couldn't come with us. He hurt me in every way possible, but he was still my dad. A brutal hope remained in me.

But over the years I realized how much I didn't need my father. As time passed, and my scars healed, that glimmer of hope diminished. My mother and I made a life for ourselves four towns over. He was no longer needed to make me happy. His opinion didn't matter. Instead, the sadness turned to bitter anger. Everyday I saw the wounds he left on my mother and it angered me.

But I was never fully the same. The second I left that house, the sweet little girl faded away. She could never exist after I knew what good people could turn into. No one was really who they said they were and it didn't matter how many years you had trusted them.

I came to the conclusion that an untamable beast lurked inside everyone.

What I didn't think was that the beast was actually covering the good inside everyone.

I was an orphan before I even recalled memories. My mother died during child birth and my father during her pregnancy. Quite sad, really. But the fact never bothered me. Actually, I wasn't even aware of my parents names. Neither of them influenced my life so they seemed irrelevant.

At least, that's what I told myself.

By the age of fourteen, I became utterly bored of the orphan life style. Never was I adopted. Mostly due to the fact that I was such a challenging child, even from very young. My hobbies included teasing people to the point of breaking and pulling crazy stunts many thought suicidal.

In truth, I was a walking storm with hazel eyes, reeking havoc with each misjudged step. Bad choices ruled my life, stirring hot and cold until every emotion was trapped within the cyclone of my being. I was a fire. A fire that flared far to brightly for my age. A fire that glowed with an unusual color many didn't understand. A fire with the power to burn.

After fourteen years, the small ancient orphanage could no longer offer me entertainment. I had found every way possible to tease the same people and pull the same tricks. It became boring. I was looking for a trill that orphanage wasn't giving to me.

So one day, I ran away.

Hopped out the bedroom window with a small backpack of my stuff in the middle of the night. And that was it.

Caught the first train out of that city. No one ever looked for me. After all, who would be bothered to search for an adrenaline junky orphan? I bounced from place to place, finding shelter in small alley ways and park benches. Some say that the homeless lifestyle is horrible but it was perfect for me. I hated being tied down to one place. Hated the chains of a community. I loved traveling and personally, didn't find the experience awful.

Mastered the art of pick pocketing and shoplifting. Never needed a job. Bounced around cities finding something to satisfy my adrenaline addictive. The trill was like my drug. I was hooked.

But eventually I got tired of sleeping on park benches or crapy hotel rooms I could afford off a days worth of pick pocketing. I wanted a comfortable place that I could return to after a day of thrill seeking. For a few years I continued to travel like a gypsy until one day, I found the cottage.

It was small and abandoned. Resting on top of a hill a short ways from a city. I found it while searching for a supposed waterfall with a sixty foot drop. No one appeared to had entered for years, let alone lived there. The cottage was still littered with old furniture and decor. I rid it of dust and replaced the bed sheets. The small two room cottage was perfect and no one ever disturbed me. Of course there was no water and no electricity but that was never a bother.

Life was good and I was happy. Well, as happy as I could be. I spent my life looking for thrills and spikes of adrenalin. That was the extent of my living. And in those rare minuets where I felt nothing but weightlessness, I thought my life was perfect. And I felt meaningful. It was only during the last few moments of each day as the sun was sinking behind the horizon, I wondered if I could be more.

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Okay, that was it! Really depressing and serious back stories, I know. But I means I can build really interesting characters. Anyways, hope this makes you want to read more! Promise it will be worth it!