September 21st, 2010.

Danica Jones, Aged 19.

Grief. We all deal with it in our own way.

But when Dana died, we all felt it. She was the fourth member in our little band of misfits, our family member.

And now she was gone.

Regina came for the funeral, then she left. She wouldn't come back for another year.

But I stayed long after everyone left, I always did.

I stood in front of her grave and cried.

"Farewell, my friend." I had whispered, leaving a bouquet of lilacs on her grave.

We all had loved Dana fiercely, and would miss her dearly.

But she died for family, and we could all respect that.

I ran my fingers over the writing on her tombstone and murmured something in Italian, my native language.

She was my friend.

My first friend.

We kept each other safe and warm on the streets for years. We escaped the orphanage together when we were eight.

Thick as thieves we were. Which was ironic since we were certainly not good people back then. We needed to survive.

So yeah, we stole.

Oh well, big whoop. Yell at me, see if I care.

It was a sad day when Dana died.

I still miss her, we all do.